


Love In A Time Of The Zombie Apocalypse

by rizzlewrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMFs galore, Children in Dangerous Situations, Draco is a BAMF, F/M, Guns, Harry is a BAMF, Hermione is a BAMF, Horror, Original Character(s), Post-Apocalyptic, Science, scientist Draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 50
Words: 183,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28137807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizzlewrites/pseuds/rizzlewrites
Summary: After Voldemort, there was this. The clock is ticking to create a cure to the unimaginable horror that currently grips the world. Hermione finds herself unwillingly allied with the most hated man in Wizarding Britain.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Padma Patil/Original Character(s)
Comments: 147
Kudos: 480





	1. Release

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally happening! I'm slowly transferring my fics across from wild and wooly, FFnet, beginning with LIATOTZA. Too, I'll be sneaking in some edits along the way. Any major changes to characters or plot will be flagged in any chapters where the changes appear. I'm still getting the hang of tags and stuff, so please bear with me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Hermione perpetrate a high risk, jail-break.

** Author's Notes  **

17/12/2020- I've decided to swap Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt, as the latter just makes more sense as Minister for Magic in the story. 

ETA (22/2/2021) - Because I am the LAMEST EVER, I have decided to SWAP THEM BACK. Sorry, sorry! This decision was made after receiving constructive feedback from readers which pretty much said that people had gotten used to imagining Scrimgeour in the role and it would be jarring to replace him at such a late stage. I have not decided yet what to do about Desmond (whose scenes I have replaced with Anatoli). 

* * *

"Do you really think he's still alive?"

"Well, my sensor spell is very clearly picking up someone in the lower ground."

"Someone?"

"Yes. Someone _alive_. And as expected, it looks like we can't Apparate in. Seamus' wards are holding, Harry."

"Finnegan ended up being a deft hand at the ol' swish and flick after all… I guess it's the front door, then? How come no one's realised he's been here all this while?"

"Everyone's dead. There was simply no one left to remember."

"Do you reckon he has absolutely no idea what's been happening?"

"I don't know. It's possible. Solitary confinement is rather, well, solitary."

"You're sure you want to do this? Scrimgeour will have our heads. Well, more mine than yours. He actually needs _your_ head."

"He'll understand. And please, Harry, no more chainsaw hex at close quarters? The mess took days to wash out of my hair last time."

"I rather like that hex…"

"I know you do, Harry."

"I invented it, you know."

"Yes, Harry."

"On the count of three?"

"Let's."

"One, two, three. _REDUCTO_!"

* * *

The front doors to Azkaban prison exploded open.

Dust, mortar and bits of pulverised wood bloomed up in the air to form a noxious cloud. It still wasn't thick enough to prevent the smell of concentrated death and decay from hitting Harry and Hermione like a battering ram. The scent was strong enough to taste. Coughing and covering their mouths and noses with their forearms, wands held aloft, they entered the dark foyer.

Harry cast _lumos_.

There were no teeming hordes. No ravenous undead to fend off. Well, that wasn't exactly accurate—there _were_ ravenous undead, they were just in such an emaciated and weakened state that most had been reduced to half-eaten, moaning, twitching torsos on the ground. In the absence of fresh meat, they had cannibalised each other.

The ones left uneaten were now completely unanimated; vestigial brain functions long gone. Azkaban had not been spared from the outbreak, but during the worst of it, Warden Seamus Finnegan had made the call to release as many prisoners as possible before sealing the front doors and containing what was inside _on the inside_. That included himself and five remaining prison guards who were still human and very much alive the last time they had communicated with the Ministry. Now there was no one. There was just the dark, death and the familiar gut-churning smell. The smell permeated everything.

Hermione cast the Sensor Spell again, which manifested as condensed, red-gridded blueprints. There, in Sub Basement C, Azkaban's state of the (magical) art, completely automated, maximum security wing, was Prisoner E5673. He showed up as a luminous blue, pulsating dot.

They took the stairs. Harry first, with Hermione following behind. There was a small, unexpected welcoming party in the stairwell—two former prison-guards who still looked rather fresh.

Hermione didn't have time to think about the horrors the pair had probably endured, attempting to survive the hell of being trapped in a building with two hundred newborn zombies, at least a dozen of which had been former colleagues. They'd done well to survive, for a time.

Harry eventually took the head off the male guard, who was naked with its stomach gaping open, and who still kept coming at them. A kick saw the headless torso topple over the railing, landing with a wet noise in the landing of Sub-Basement A.

The female guard lurched forward toward Hermione. It still wore its uniform, a badge and a blue hair barrette, though seemed to be missing most of its face and an arm. Its slack mouth opened hideously wide due to a dislocated, misaligned jaw. A spasming hand reached for Hermione's face.

" _Incendio._ " The thing dropped to its knees loudly enough to crack bone, screeching and tearing at its clothing as it burned.

"You OK?" Harry called. He was halfway down the stairs.

No, of course not. She would never be ok. Not ever again.

"Yes!" Hermione called back, stepping around the twitching, burning zombie.

* * *

They found Draco Malfoy three floors below, housed within a steel-rimmed glass cube — one of Seamus' designs. He was seated at a small desk and he was reading.

 _Reading_.

Hermione could have hated him for that alone.

For a goodly minute, he stared at them while they stared at him. It was a study in ironic, almost comical contrasts. The convicted murderer looked rather civilised, almost genteel. He was well-shorn and tidy in plain black robes. Then there was the rather bedraggled, bearded and slightly manic-eyed Harry. Beside him was Hermione, liberally covered in dust, soot and why yes, that _had_ to be viscera in her hair, didn't it?

At the far end of Malfoy's cell were bookshelves groaning under the weight of books. Inexplicably, she felt the hot sting of tears. Last year, she could have plucked her favourite piece of Muggle fiction off a shelf at her parents' current residence in Australia, curled up in front of the fireplace in their den and read until the sun came up.

That was then. It felt like a lifetime ago. Now, most of the world had turned upside down. What was still right side up was _burning_. The idea of stories and happy endings seemed so alien and indulgent.

And here he was. Draco Malfoy. Reading.

Hermione's attention abruptly returned to the situation at hand when Malfoy shut his book with a loud snap. He stood, looking markedly taller, paler and thinner than she remembered. She observed the small frown that appeared at his brow. A normal person would have demanded to know what the hell was going on aboveground that made it impossible for anyone to check on him in months. But Malfoy was anything but normal. You didn't keep 'normal' in this kind of prison.

Malfoy's eyes catalogued everything with a neat, precise hunger; scanning all the details presented to him. His gaze eventually stopped at her. A cold smile transformed his face from discreetly curious to calculating.

"Visitors. My, it has been a while." The words were light, but there was tension. His adult voice was soft and sibilant, with just the traces of the familiar timbre Hermione recalled from their youth.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You might want to stand back, Malfoy," Harry said raising his wand, but Hermione put a stalling hand on his arm.

"Remember what Seamus said when they built the prototype?" she reminded Harry. "We can hear him, but he can't hear anything from inside the cube. Use the communication box."

"The what?"

Both Malfoy and Hermione pointed to it at the same time—a small metal box recessed into a corner of the cube. There was a slot at the bottom big enough for Hermione to feed through rolled up, back-copies of the Daily Prophet and The Guardian.

"What's that for?" Harry asked.

"For proof. Would _you_ believe us?"

Harry grunted. "Probably not. Good thinking."

Not in any great hurry, Malfoy retrieved the broadsheets and scanned them. His frown deepened and. At one point, he stopped blinking altogether. When he looked up, however, his face was utterly impassive. Hermione hadn't been sure what to expect. Shock, certainly. Perhaps even an attempt at dark humour. But this ambivalence angered her. Of course he cared. He _had_ to care. Hermione tried to scry for evidence of this and couldn't seem to find any.

She pressed the button on the communication box and spoke. "Given that the virus originated here, we've been the worst hit, so the UK and Scotland are currently cut off from Europe and the rest of the world. Africa, South America, Central, West and North Asia are war zones. North and South America are about to follow suit. So far, only South East Asia, Australia, New Zealand and pockets of Oceania are reporting the greatest success in isolating their Infected."

Malfoy processed all this. "Well that would explain why Warden Finnegan hasn't come to see me in such a long while. Tell me, has he shuffled off this mortal coil? Pun intended, provided these creatures are of the shuffling variety?"

Seamus Finnegan. Warden of Azkaban. Married to Lavender Brown, deceased. Two children, Timothy, aged five, deceased. And oh—what was her name? The little one? Hermione dredged up a memory of a Seamus striding into the Ministry one morning carrying a little girl with blonde hair and cornflower-blue eyes.

 _Emily_. Also deceased.

It was important to Hermione that she remembered all the names. The two guards they dispatched minutes ago had been somebody's 'people'. Were they remembered?

She ignored Malfoy's question about Seamus. His other question was much more pertinent. "These creatures are slow and not terribly strong as more time passes, but then their strength has always been in their numbers. And unfortunately, the Infected in the UK outnumber us thanks to the original outbreak wave."

"And how many did you incinerate on your way down here?"

"Not nearly so many that we can afford to waste time talking about this. You need to come with us."

"Why?"

Harry made an impatient noise and took over at the box. "The Americans are planning a nuclear strike over London. Frankly, we're lucky it hasn't already happened. What's left of the British Muggle government has managed to convince the American President to give the magical community time to bring the situation under control here."

Malfoy laughed. "Are you trying to tell me that this—" he gestured towards Harry and Hermione—" _this_ is some kind of rescue? Frankly, Potter, I'm touched."

"During the war, you were briefly allied with a wizard who previously worked in virology at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in the US, weren't you?"

Malfoy was surprised at the turn in conversation, but didn't miss a beat. "Yes. Hendry Tan. Mad as a March hare, but undeniably brilliant."

"You killed him. If he was alive, we wouldn't need you." Hermione said, tightly. 

"He killed himself, Granger. I just didn't stop him." His grey stare bored into her. "And pray tell why do you have need of me?"

Hermione sucked in a breath and counted to five before she shoved Harry aside and pressed the button once more. She'd rehearsed all this with Harry already, but the _reality_ of actually having to converse with Draco Malfoy, war criminal, terrorist and murderer, was something you could never prepare for. No doubt the fact she'd known him since he was squeaky-voiced and shorter than her, added to her anxieties. It seemed a travesty that such an evil, loathsome person was needed to bring about such good.

"Your task was to create an additional line of funding for Voldemort's cause by selling potion patents to pharmaceutical companies, yes?"

Malfoy had moved to sit on the edge his desk, arms folded. The long parting in his robes widened, revealing a pair of slim, black trousers. Every other prisoner in Azkaban wore bright orange. Trust Malfoy to have struck some kind of deal to avoid what he probably perceived to be an unfashionable fate. Or maybe it was just that maximum security inmates adhered to a different set of rules? After all, they didn't socialise with the rest of the inmate community.

In any case, there was no sign of the pompous little bully and fledgling sociopath who never went anywhere without Crabbe and Goyle. The bully had grown into a man with blood on his hands. And not the kind that currently stained Hermione's jeans and canvas jacket.

"You Muggles, with your science and technology and your much vaunted human ingenuity. Voldemort spotted a lucrative, untapped market," he said.

There was a muffled crash from the direction of the stairwell. Harry and Hermione glanced at the exit. Nothing came through. Malfoy, not being able to hear anything external to his cell, followed their line of sight. He also observed Harry checking his wristwatch and giving Hermione a pointed look.

"So you tried selling magical cures to Muggles," Hermione concluded, speaking faster now.

"Synthesised magical cures, Granger. That was our job—to convert the magical to the mundane."

"You and Tan _synthesized_ one of your potions into a serum. An antivirus. Do you remember what it was called?"

They had to confirm what American Wizarding intelligence had surmised, after going through every line of Draco Malfoy's ministry files. Otherwise, Malfoy was of no use to them free. She wondered if he knew his life was at stake. If he couldn't help their cause, they would leave him there.

For a moment, it looked like he wasn't going to humour her by continuing the conversation, but then he replied. "Tan named it after me. _Double-stranded RNA Activated Caspase Oligomerizer_."

Hermione couldn't help it. Her heart leaped a little. Here, at last, was hope after so many weeks of failure in the laboratory.

"D.R.A.C.O," Hermione said, swallowing the lump in her throat. Harry hated calling it that, but the longer version continually defeated him. "We need you to tell us how to make D.R.A.C.O so I can combine it with a standard Regeneration Potion."

"Why?"

She was blunt. "To save the world."

One floor up, there was the sound of furniture scraping along the floor.

" _Hermione_ …" 

Malfoy left his perch at his desk and stood before her, separated by four-inch thick, enchanted glass. He put his hand against the glass, to the left of her face. She tilted her head upwards to meet his stare. It took effort, but she managed to resist the urge to step backwards. He was contained, but still crowded her.

"And what do I get in return, Mudblood?"

Harry marched over to the communication box. "You get to live, you bastard! We could just as easily leave you here to rot!"

Malfoy chuckled. "Potter, the spells that automate my air supply, artificial sunlight, the delivery of my food and the elimination of my waste will likely outlast us both. I'm probably safer in here than you are out there."

"Caged like an animal, you mean?"

"We're all animals," Malfoy replied. "Some of us simply belong to a higher stratum than others." At this, he stared at Hermione. "Where is Weasley? Don't tell me he's succumbed? Did you have the heart to put him out of his misery or has his mother got him tied to a peg in the backyard of that lean-to he calls a home?"

Harry growled and slammed the side of his fist against the glass, which shimmered. Malfoy didn't as much as flinch, neither did he take his eyes off Hermione. The answer to his query was on her face.

"I see," Malfoy said, speculatively.

Damn him. _Damn, damn, damn_. Hermione whirled around to the face the wall, away from Malfoy and away from the damnable concern and regret in Harry's eyes. She looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly in an ineffectual attempt to stifle her tears.

She was startled when Harry grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the exit. "We're leaving without him."

"Harry, no." She dug her heels in. "We need him!"

"No one needs _that_! No one can possibly be that desperate!"

" _We're_ that desperate!" she hissed. She extricated her hand from his grasp and ran back to the communication box.

Malfoy had watched the entire exchange, the smirk gone, grey eyes now very intent. It was time to end the game and no mistake, he'd been playing one the moment they'd showed up. He approached her at the box, eye to eye, behind the glass. He stood so close she could see the flecks of blue in his irises.

"What do you want?" she asked, plainly.

"A full pardon. My title and property restored to me, unconditionally."

Hermione nodded, unsurprised. "You'll have it."

"I am to take your word for it?"

"Yes."

She thought it was a certainty that her promise would not be enough; that he would argue and bargain some more. But there must have been something in the quality of her reply, because he was no longer impassive. For the briefest moment, she saw unadulterated wanting. The raw emotion was as affecting as it was brief.

" _Swear it_."

"I swear on my life that if you help us from this point, the Ministry will rescind your sentence."

"We need to go!" Harry yelled.

"Do we have a bargain?" Hermione demanded, simultaneously.

Malfoy nodded. "We do."

"Then stand back."

He did so, and she noticed that he quickly walked to the book shelves, plucked a volume and tucked it away inside his robes.

The spell shattered the glass wall into an ocean of crystalline granules that crunched under Malfoy's feet as he exited his prison. He didn't bound out of his cell with a triumphant expression. There was a caution and tentativeness to his movements which almost garnered him some sympathy from Hermione.

As soon as he was out, Harry grabbed hold of Malfoy's elbow and placed the tip of his wand to his throat. "I'm itching for an excuse, Malfoy. So don't try anything."

Malfoy held up his hands. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Tether him," Harry said to Hermione.

She pulled a long, golden skein from the back pocket of her jeans and approached Malfoy. Impossibly, he seemed even taller outside of his cage.

"Pull up your sleeve and hold out your left arm," she ordered. "You're still left-handed, I assume?"

"You remember that?"

"It's just a detail." She began to tie one end of the skein around his left wrist.

The skin at the inside of his wrist was so pale it was nearly translucent, light blue veins clearly visible. Hermione's grubby, soot-blackened fingers were a stark contrast. Further up his arm, the tail end of the Dark Mark was revealed. It was a muted grey, the colour of a faded tattoo. As Hermione made the knot, she brushed his skin with her knuckles once or twice and saw that it left a smudge.

He said nothing during this, but she could feel his gaze over the top of her head. She then tied the other end of the skein to Harry's right wrist. When it was done, Malfoy pulled his sleeve back down.

"What is this?" he asked, examining his wrist. The skein had vanished. He thumbed the soot marks away.

"Your leash," Harry said, with some relish. He grabbed the back of Malfoy's robes and shoved him towards the exit and the stairs. "Up we go. Death Eaters first."

"Oh, this just gets better and better," Malfoy muttered under his breath. "Fortune, on his damned quarry smiling."

Hermione followed behind, thinking that a Draco Malfoy who quoted from Macbeth was just slightly discombobulating.


	2. Project Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco meets the Brains Trust and Hermione gets a scolding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was their base of operations, with a few slight tweaks.

Two basement levels, among other things. It served as both a makeshift Ministry headquarters and laboratory, boasting equipment painstakingly pilfered from medical and scientific facilities all over England.

The research team comprised of Muggle scientists and magical experts, all of whom worked in shifts around the clock, surviving on a combination of coffee, camaraderie and junk food. There were mixed-bloods, Muggleborns, a werewolf, regular Muggles and Purebloods in the bargain. They worked side by side, slept in bunk beds, ate the same awful food and told the same bad jokes. As it turned out, there _was_ such a thing as a Japanese 'knock-knock' joke (they were just called 'kon-kon' jokes). It was enough to warm the cockles of a cynical heart. Or alternatively, make Voldemort turn over in his grave.

"The brains trust," Malfoy called it, as Harry brought him through the lab. Hermione was not with them, having gone directly upstairs to brief the Minister on their recent acquisition.

Padma Patil looked up from the her station as Harry introduced Malfoy to _Project Christmas_. Malfoy didn't need to ask about the origins of the mission's name. Yule—and the Americans' nuclear strike deadline—was at the end of December.

And as if the team members needed the reminder, some had taken it upon themselves to erect a plastic Christmas tree, complete with balding tinsel rope, mismatched baubles and blinking lights. There was plastic holly taped to the tops of filing cabinets and large, glitzy foam reindeer stickers stuck to the walls. In the far corner was a life-sized, blow-up Santa Claus. Some enterprising soul had slipped Father Christmas into red, thong underwear and had drawn glasses and a lightning bolt scar across his forehead.

Padma gave Malfoy a cool once-over. "Is he safe?"

Harry held up his wrist. "We used your tether."

"Goodness, Harry! I haven't even had a chance to test that out properly yet!"

"I have. Behold," Harry said, grinning, though it was hard to tell given his mountain-man beard. To demonstrate, he made a fist, held out his arm and then gave Malfoy a focused look. 

Malfoy was abruptly reeled in at such force that he slammed into the side of Padma's work station. She managed to snatch up a rack of test tubes before it toppled over.

Having righted himself, Malfoy shot Harry a dark look. For Padma, however, he was all smiles. "Still wasting your Blood talents on this lot, I see?"

Padma's resulting glare ought to have caused instant frostbite. She blinked once, slowly, and then completely dismissed Malfoy altogether. "Harry, you may like to know that Scrimgeour's already had his proverbial kittens and is upstairs attempting to proverbially wean them."

Harry winced. "That bad, is it? Hermione's speaking to him now."

"And that's the last time you give me the job of telling the Minister that you two have gone off to rescue the most dangerous criminal in the country from a zombie infested mank hole!" Now that her obligatory bluster was out of the way, Padma gave Harry a conspiratorial look. "So, was it worth it or what?"

"Padma," Harry began, his eyes bright, "he says he can re-create D.R.A.C.O."

This brought the hubbub of activity in the lab to an abrupt halt. Everyone present had been surreptitiously listening to the conversation.

Padma stood up from her metal stool and to both Malfoy's and Harry's surprise, grabbed the front of Malfoy's robes. She was so happy she was practically luminous. "Merlin! So it's true, then? Your formula exists?"

Malfoy stared down at her rubber-gloved hands. Padma's immediately released him. "We have everything you need here to make it," she said, with more sobriety. "Of course ReGen's being used right now to control the progress of the Infection, but that's just the start of what's to come."

There was silence. Malfoy filled it. "Given that I've been stuck in a glass box for six years, ReGen is…?"

"Oh, yes," Padma said. "Sorry, I forget about the whole incarcerated insane criminal thing."

"I'm _not_ insane," Malfoy replied, with quiet annoyance. This was apparently a sore point for him. "There were _tests_."

"We have better tests these days. Perhaps when all this is over, we can have another go at it?" Padma's smile was sharp. 

Malfoy sighed. "So what is ReGen?"

"It's a treatment for the newly infected. It's not a cure, but it buys the Infected some time before they turn. The plan is to combine it with D.R.A.C.O, to create a state of cellular stasis during which D.R.A.C.O may be able to gain a foothold."

"And this ReGen has been trialed?"

"Of course." There was professional pride in Padma's voice. "All this may look haphazard, but it isn't. We have the means to formulate a cure. _The_ cure."

"You have the means to test your cure on human subjects, as well?"

At this, Padma's mouth opened to respond, but she stopped herself when she caught Harry's subtle look.

"That's enough for now, I think." Harry activated the tether and led Malfoy out of the lab. "Come on, I'll show you to your room. You'll love it. It's just like home."

* * *

The silence was grating.

Also, she was itchy and in dire need of a shower. Hermione remained standing in the middle of the meeting room on the second floor of Twelve, Grimmauld Place, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Scrimgeour was looking over the file on D.R.A.C.O that the Americans had put together after a careful curation of the Ministry's own records on Voldemort and Malfoy.

The Americans were very thorough. It was a thick file, but Hermione couldn't help but notice that much of it was redacted. 

"Sir, if I could just—"

Without taking his eyes off the page he was reading, Scrimgeour held up an index finger, cutting her off.

Hermione resumed waiting. Unfortunately, there were other people in the room—the Japanese and Australian members of Project Christmas, and the two American Wizarding intelligence operatives, who were unerringly _everywhere_. The rest of the research team were still in the lab with Padma, and thank Merlin for it. That meant less people on hand to witness Scrimgeour's formidable displeasure.

As it happened, all the scientists in the group shared more in common than they shared differences. This was despite language barriers, differences in age, rank and status, and in the case of their Swedish microbiologist, the fact that he turned into a seven-foot tall pillar of muscle, fur, teeth and talons once a month. They all still got inhumanly excited by results garnered from petri dishes. They were focused to the point of exhaustion and seemed to run mostly on caffeine and crisps.

The two Wizarding agents were a different matter. At the behest of the US government, they lurked in corners, made notes and held regular, private Floo communication with their superiors in Washington. There were an impressive amount of _levels_ to the US Wizarding Senate. It was like bureaucratic layer cake.

Harry called them the Cowboy and the Debutante.

The Cowboy was currently giving Hermione a beady-eyed look. His partner, the Debutante, observed the proceedings with unconcealed (and rather unprofessional) glee. Some of the other international scientists may have been used to working under constant government surveillance, but Hermione was not.

Suffice it to say she and the agents did _not_ get along.

Presently, Scrimgeour cleared his throat and shut the folder. "Alright, I think I'm all caught up. I've read the official version. Now tell me in your own words why you think Draco Malfoy isn't a danger to this team and likely to run the first chance he gets?"

He seemed angrier than was reasonable, Hermione felt. She was ready for his questions, reminding herself that forgiveness was easier to obtain than permission.

"He has everything to gain by cooperating with us," she explained. "Consider that he lost everything of value to him the moment his sentence was handed down. We've removed him from prison, promised a pardon and have provided him with a unique opportunity to—"

" _Don't._ "

"Don't what, sir?"

"Don't use the 'r' word."

Hermione was confused. Did he mean 'removed'? "I'm not sure I follow?"

"Redeem. _Redemption_."

"Sir, I was actually going to say 'earn his freedom'."

"But you're implying a chance at redemption will be his primary motivation, are you not?"

Well, she supposed she was implying that. "If it's not his motivation yet, I'm hoping it will become so."

"You're foolish to think that."

Hermione bit back a more acerbic retort. Did Scrimgeour know something she did not? The unnecessary secrets and intrigue that was the way of the British Ministry for Magic was maddening. "Will you please explain why you don't agree with my assessment?"

"You're applying your own set of values to his likely motivations. Draco Malfoy is not a homicidal maniac, but he likes to profit from chaos. You were not involved in the effort to capture him. You, Hermione, and the people that you lead are not trained to deal with the likes of him. He has only ever had one agenda—his own self-interests. Do not assume Draco Malfoy is in any way moved by the plight of those around him. This is a Death Eater than ended up double-crossing the Dark Lord. He is _not_ someone I would want anywhere near this team. There is too much at stake and none of you are replaceable at this late juncture."

"Then how do you propose we get D.R.A.C.O out of him?" Hermione demanded. "We don't have the twelve months it takes to ferment Veritas Potion, which his file indicates that he's impervious to anyway!"

Scrimgeour stood and walked to the blocked-out window that would have overlooked the street outside. It was impossible to tell if it was day or night when you were inside the house. He clasped his hands behind his back and for some reason, turned his attention to the Cowboy....

Who caught Scrimgeour look and said, "We can always just ask the son of a bitch."

Hermione did not readily offer up her agreement. She knew what men like the Cowboy did for a living. It seemed ridiculous to think that she was actually fulfilling the role of Malfoy's advocate.

"What do you mean exactly by 'ask'?"

"We contain him for the duration," the Cowboy continued. "Stick him in a cage until we can confirm if the formula he provides us is legitimate. If it doesn't pan out, we ask again…only with more stick, less carrot."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "I fail to understand how a cage is any type of carrot to begin with."

"What is meaning of luh-jit? Why we use carrot?" asked Professor Yoshida, the Japanese potions expert. His colleague, an Australian neurobiochemist, assisted by whispering a few less colloquial synonyms.

Professor Yoshida nodded. He also widened his eyes a little apprehensively at the Cowboy.

The Debutante spoke. "Exactly how volatile is the Subject?"

"He killed a Ministry guard with a plastic dinner tray," Scrimgeour said, his voice flat. "They was some regrettable manhandling involved on the part of the prison guards that instigated this, but the point is that he's _very_ volatile."

The Australian scientist, Dr Alec Mercer, rose to his feet. An ever-present open bag of potato crisps in his hand. "Look, none of the research team came to London to play good cop bad cop with your pet Lex Luthor." He paused in contemplation for a moment, before adding, "With the possible exception of Dr Patil. I reckon she'd be happy to go a few rounds as interrogator…."

Hermione nearly cracked a smile. Padma was their resident laboratory Dragon Lady.

Dr Mercer continued, "However you manage it, just get the formula out of the guy and we'll synthesize it. Or better yet, he can help us make it. Vast quantities of the stuff. We'll need all hands on deck. Either way, the deadline stands and we're running out of time."

"We'll get it done." Hermione was adamant.

The two experts left the room, leaving Scrimgeour and the American agents. "I'd like a word alone with Hermione."

This did not sit well with the Americans, as they were meant to have access to any meetings or activities undertaken within Project Christmas. However, there was no arguing with Scrimgeour on this point. He waited until the agents shut the door behind them before he spoke to Hermione.

"Who is Lex Luthor?"

The question was unexpected. Hermione blinked for a moment. "Harry say my Muggle pop culture knowledge is dismal, but I believe Lex Luthor is the villain in the Muggle's Superman stories."

Scrimgeour was silent for a moment. When he next spoke, there was more emotion in his voice. "This is not a hero story. You put this entire operation in jeopardy today."

"How? Harry and I acted alone."

"Precisely because you _chose_ to act alone!"

Hermione refused to look away from his anger, feeling equal parts furious and ashamed.

"You are not a teenager! This is not Hogwarts and I am not Albus Dumbledore! I do not think it appropriate for me to merely hover in the background, fulfilling the role of distant, ambiguous mentor while you undertake dangerous missions that have been cleared by _no one_. I smell Potter's influence in all this."

"No sir, he had nothing to do with it," she whispered, staring mutinously at the Minister. It was as close as he'd ever come to openly disagreeing with Albus Dumbledore's handling of Harry and Voldemort. Hermione gave up trying to match his glare. She closed her eyes, feeling the beginnings of an Olympic-size migraine starting up at her temples. "It was my idea. My plan."

And perhaps it was the obvious signs of her fatigue that eventually caused Scrimgeour's anger to dissipate. He merely sounded tired when he next spoke. "You are valuable, Hermione. Too valuable to risk your life—and Potter's—like you did today. Many of these people would follow Potter into fire he asked them to."

He could have been, but she knew he wasn't specifically referring to Ron. Scrimgeour may have had a temper, but he was never cruel. It didn't matter, anyway. _Everything_ seemed to be about Ron. The quiet of her room. The empty seat across from her at the kitchen table. The haunted look Harry wore when he thought no one was looking.

"You have no idea what Draco Malfoy is capable of."

"So you keep saying," Hermione said, with a frown.

"I understand you're using Patil's tether to secure him?"

"Yes. The tether works."

"Good. See to it that it continues to do so. Malfoy's life and our safety depends on it."

He dismissed her.

Hermione made her way to the communal bathroom on the first floor, her feet dragging a little. The shower could wait until later. She washed her hands, her arms, her face and then stared at her dripping visage in the mirror. Of course she looked terrible. Fatigue seemed to be hollowing her out such that she was all cheekbones and clavicles, making her brown eyes enormous. Her fingers came up and plucked at the bit of zombie guts that was caught in her hair. She flushed it down the toilet, rinsed out her mouth and brushed her teeth.

And then she went downstairs to see Ron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> Draco's line in the first scene about not being crazy is inspired by Sheldon Cooper's annoyance in The Big Bang Theory, every time someone questions his sanity.
> 
> The Minister's mention of Draco being lethal with a plastic dinner tray in the second scene is inspired by comedian Eddie Izzard's (2000) stand up show, 'Circle', which features a segment widely referred to as 'Death Star Canteen'.


	3. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Padma discuss the most recent addition to Project Christmas. Draco makes his first move on the board.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.

Hermione detoured past the kitchens on her way down to the basement. There was usually someone in there no matter what time of the day. On this occasion, it was Honoria Cloot, one of the team's mediwitches.

She was making herself a cup of tea. "I just heard about your trip to Azkaban. Is Draco Malfoy really joining the team?"

"A bit too soon to say, but he's here, anyway."

"Interesting times ahead," Honoria said, stirring sugar into her cup.

Hermione walked to the pantry and took out some bottled water. Her thirst surprised her, even though she was normally dehydrated after any extended bout of spell-casting. She finished the bottle by the time she took the set of stairs down to the second basement level, opened a bolted door and entered a long concrete room that housed three, steel-barred cells. The smell of antiseptic was very pronounced. 

A visit alone with Ron wasn't on the cards that night, apparently.

Padma Patil was checking Ron's central venous line when Hermione approached the first of the three cells. She paused outside the door until Padma finished replacing the parenteral bag that provided Ron's intravenous nutrition. When it was done, Padma cast _scourgify_ over the area, looked up and smiled.

"Hi."

Hermione passing through the sanitisation wards barrier that extended around Ron's cell. The outline of the cell glowed green for a moment. It stung, but it was less cumbersome than having to work in PPE.

"How is he today?" she asked Padma.

"Not so good. If his CVP continues to deteriorate, he's going to be hypovolemic. His blood plasma is…I don't know…his blood volume just keeps dropping." Padma's frustration was evident in her voice. "He's not hemorrhaging and I know he's not dehydrated because if we give him any more fluids, he's going to develop congestive heart failure."

"What does our virologist say?"

"McAlister says the symptoms are not dissimilar to advanced rabies, but there's also a whole array of things going on that no one has seen happen all at the same time. We just haven't had enough time to study this."

Hermione walked over to Ron and stroked his auburn hair away from his forehead. His skin was sallow and he'd lost a great deal of weight, but for the most part, he still looked like Ron. She couldn't count the number of times she'd stared down at him and expected him to open his blue eyes, corners crinkling, and smile up at her.

Both Hermione and Padma recognised the situation for what it was. Regardless of whether Ron got better or sicker, they were learning more about the Infection every day precisely _because_ of him. When they discussed his condition, they weren't just talking about their friend. They were talking about a living experiment.

Harry didn't understand this, and sometimes, he got angry at what he didn't understand.

When he looked at Ron, he saw his sick best friend and what he _wanted_ to see was Hermione doing everything she could to save Ron. And she was, but Harry didn't wish to entertain the other reasons for her efforts. Hermione envied Harry sometimes. In many ways, life was a lot simpler for him.

Padma was now flipping through her notes. "I hate to say this, but I think we may be approaching ReGen's efficacy threshold."

Hermione peered over her friend's shoulder. "Where are we up to?"

"Three weeks and five days since he was bitten."

Absently, they both stared at the bandage around Ron's left forearm. Beneath it was the bite that had caused his Infection.

"He's the longest surviving person on ReGen," Padma said.

"Four weeks is not enough time. We need it to last at least three times as long or it's not going to be of much use to people. ReGen's been relatively easy for us to manufacture and distribute so far. But the cure is going to be more difficult. It's liable to take months just to get enough quantities to the Infected communities."

"Hmm," said Padma, tapping her fingernail against a page. "So we go back to the drawing board on ReGen. Mind you, we didn't have Yoshida, McAlister or Malfoy when we brewed the first batch. There's every chance we'll be able to create a formula that achieves greater longevity."

"Speaking of Malfoy…" Hermione lowered her voice. "Harry showed him the lab? Was everything, uh, OK?"

Padma nodded. "Yes. And I gave Malfoy a whole stack of notes to read, so he can catch up on what we're doing. I still can't believe he attended Muggle medical school while he was hiding out in Russia..."

" _You_ attended Muggle medical school," Hermione pointed out. "In fact, I think you two are probably the only Hogwarts-graduated Purebloods to have done so. And I don't actually think he finished, if that helps."

"Ugh." Parma wrinkled her nose. "The less I have in common with him, the better, thanks."

"Don't worry, he didn't do it for altruistic reasons. If he wanted to sell potions to Muggles, he needed a particular skill set that traditional Mediwizadry couldn't provide."

Padma considered this. "Ravenclaw didn't share many potions classes with Slytherin. Tell me. Was he any good?"

Draco Malfoy had tied with Hermione in their Potions OWLs. "Yes," Hermione said, without hesitation. 

Padma was still troubled. "I'm usually adept at reading people, but I can't get a handle on him. All I can pick up is contempt and the occasional glimmer of murderous rage when he looks at Harry."

Hermione snorted as she bent down to smooth Ron's cotton cellular blanket. "Nothing's changed there."

The women were silent for a moment, contemplating the metronomic rise and fall of Ron's chest. And then the SPO2 monitor beeped. Padma walked around the bed to check it.

"He's bloody good-looking though, isn't he?"

" _Padma_."

Padma looked up from her task "What? I can't notice these things? I'm busy, not dead."

Hermione managed to find her first genuine smile of the day. Or of the month, more likely. "Don't tell Mercer that. He'll get jealous."

"Mercer! That man is infuriating. What kind of scientist drops crumbs all over the place?"

"He thinks very highly of you," said Hermione, primly.

Padma looked up at Hermione, her expression now very serious. "Mercer also happens to think it's high time we had a look inside Ron's brain."

"What, you mean EEG? I distinctly remember finding one for you."

"No, we need to look _inside_."

Hermione frowned. "I hope you mean _in vivo_?"

"Of course. In fact, Ron's more valuable to us alive than not."

"I hate it when you talk like that."

Padma walked over to Hermione and touched her on the shoulder. "I'm sorry. I care about him too, you know."

Hermione patted her hand. "I know. So, what do we need?"

"An MRI scanner."

"OK. I'll speak to Scrimgeour in the morning."

"I'm afraid this is not something you can steal and bring back here. If you're thinking of installing one in this building, forget it. Mercer says the magnet alone weighs about twelve tons."

"If we can't bring the machine to Ron, then you're suggesting that we take Ron to the machine?" Hermione concluded.

"Yes."

" _Merlin._ Field trip to a hospital, then."

Padma ran the numbers in her head. "You'll need Mercer to conduct the scan, plus at least four others. Two to look after Ron. Two to handle unwanted company. I'll come, of course."

Hermione shook her head. "You will not. You need to stay behind in case I get eaten. Besides, you have no combat training. Shooting random _impedimenta_ at Death Eaters at the Battle of Hogwarts doesn't qualify."

Padma's hand was on her hip. She was a natural polymath and disliked being told she wasn't good at anything she set her mind to. "If experience matters, then I guess you'll be taking _him_?" She pointed to the cell at the end of the corridor. "He's probably got more experience than all of us, combined."

That was probably true. But Hermione didn't trust Malfoy as far as she could throw him, and he was much bigger these days.

"As I said, I'll consult with Scrimgeour."

Padma nodded. "Alright. I'm turning it. Go to sleep. You look worse than Ron."

"Oh, thanks," said Hermione, with a sigh. "Good night."

Hermione watched Padma leave, and then walked over to Ron to give his hand a final, parting squeeze. She exited the cell, locking it behind her. As she made her way to the stairs, a newly familiar voice called out, echoing slightly in the large room.

Funny, she'd been expecting it.

"It's a powerful curiosity you have there, Mudblood."

As far as taunts went, it was perfect.

Hermione stopped in her tracks, willing herself to keep walking, to ignore Malfoy and not give him the satisfaction. But the taunt also happened to be accurate. 

She turned on her heel and walked over to him. "And what exactly am I curious about, _Death Eater_?"

Hermione saw that he was sitting on his bunk, one knee drawn up, left arm balancing upon it. He smiled, and even in the darkness, she could see the dull white gleam of his teeth.

"About me. You want answers."

"When it comes to you, Malfoy, somehow I don't think the answers are as important as the right kind of questions."

He rose to his feet, unhurried, and approached the bars. Hermione took a cautionary step backwards, mentally locating her wand inside her jacket. The tether prevented his escape, but it was only their faith in Malfoy's common sense that protected all of them from his violence.

"And what are the right questions?" he asked.

"I suppose I could ask you how many people you've killed, but I think asking _why_ you killed those people is more interesting."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Would you like to hear my answer?"

Hermione feigned an expression of apprehensive eagerness. She frowned, parted her lips to form the word 'yes', and then abruptly shut them, giving him a small, satisfied smirk.

"Not really."

There, let him stew in that. Stupid mindgam—

The thought was effectively smothered because his hand darted forward and clamped around her throat. He pulled her towards him, his free hand taking hold of her right wrist. When she scrambled to reach her wand with her left hand, he released her wrist and snaked inside her jacket, the top of his hand brushing the underside of her breast as he acquired her wand.

Hermione clawed at his hand whilst simultaneously bracing her feet against the base of the bars to push herself backwards. But still he held firm, despite the fact that she was tearing into his hand with her nails. His grip on her neck shifted until all his fingers were now digging into her trachea, pinching.

"It will hurt if you move, so if you wish it to stop hurting, stop moving," he said, sounding like he was speaking to a tantruming child.

The utter normality of his tone managed to puncture her haze of panic. Hermione ceased her struggles and was rewarded with the slackening of his grip. Still, she could not move without her air supply being cut off.

Malfoy brought his tall, lean body closer to the bars, such that his lips grazed her jawline and whispered directly into her ear. "Good. The game's only fun if you play with me." He tipped his nose downwards, rubbing it against her cheek. She felt the subtle rush of cool air at the spot where he inhaled, at odds with the warmth of his breath. Through the gap in the bars, she felt his hip press into her abdomen. "Six years since I've been this close to a woman, and I find she smells like hospital soap and—" he inhaled again and she felt him smile against her cheek, "—toothpaste."

He retreated a little, and Hermione got the impression that he had gone slightly off-script, and had to re-focus.

"I don't know how many I've killed. But I can tell you that each death was necessary. Most of the time, it was to save my life or that of a colleague's. If it suited my needs, I killed. _Needs_ , Mudblood. Not _wants_."

Hermione tried to push him away with her hands, but paused when the end of her wand was pressed deeper into her belly.

Malfoy continued. "It did not suit my needs to be a law-abiding citizen, because I did not live among law-abiding people. But now I find I have more options available to me. Here and now, it _does not_ suit my needs to behave...like this."

He removed his fingers from her throat and as Hermione gasped in a lungful of unobstructed air, she felt him unfurl her tense, fisted fingers and gently slip her wand into her hand.

Now armed, Hermione stepped backwards, furious and coughing. She aimed her wand at him.

Malfoy remained at the bars, an easy, unmoving target. "You're not going to ever trust me. I wouldn't ask it and anyone who tells you to is a fool or a liar. But I do ask that you put some faith in my commitment to self-preservation."

His silver gaze dropped from her face, to her mouth, and then lower still…until Hermione felt the urge to pull her jacket shut. She glanced down at his left hand, and saw that blood from the gouges she had torn into it was dripping on the floor. She could still feel his fingers on her throat, but the particular grip he used would not leave any bruises.

She wanted to punish him. He should not be allowed to get away with menacing anyone like that, no matter that he was trying to prove a point. It was then that she saw the book; the one and only thing he had taken with him from his Azkaban cell. It was obviously of some value to him, and here it was, lying on his bunk beside a stack of papers that had to be the notes Padma had given him to read.

" _Accio_ ," she Summoned the book. It flew across the cell, collided momentarily with the bars, and then was in her hands.

Malfoy did not seem to be in the least bit perturbed by the loss of the item. Instead, he smiled.

"Sleep well, Granger. Pleasant reading."

Hermione practically jogged back to her room. She shut the door and opened the book. Her hands shook when she realised what she was looking at.

 _Son of a bitch_. Was everything a calculated game to him?

It was the formula to make D.R.A.C.O, only there was one section missing, torn out of the book.

Clever, clever man.


	4. Taransay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny is in trouble. Harry takes off on a refugee rescue mission. Meanwhile, Hermione observes a most unusual zombie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.

Ginny Weasley was nearly done running through the list of supplies that were to be sent to the refugee community on Taransay Island in Scotland's Outer Hebrides.

There were approximately five hundred Magical and Muggle folk living in a tent city on the island. Magic alone could not provide all that they needed, and so the community relied on monthly supplies sent from military stores via regulated Portkey. Scrimgeouroversaw the coordination of the supply deliveries from London.

In many ways, the island was an ideal safe zone considering there were no harbours for large vessels to moor. Everyone who currently resided there had been given the medical all-clear and had been transported from different parts of the UK. One of the first containment measures the Magical community leaders had taken was to disable Floo transportation across the globe, thus minimising the inadvertent transmission of Infected individuals from one part of the world to another. Likewise, Apparition was also highly restricted in magically Warded zones. The entire Weasley Family (bar Ron) had been successfully evacuated to Taransay. There were six other safe zones around Britain, and Scrimgeour's Grimmauld Place operation coordinated supplies to all of them—food, medicine, clothing, blankets, shelter, and of course, news.

A person could easily lose sleep if they thought about what a mammoth, all-consuming responsibility this was. It was far from ideal living in the Magical safe zones, but the conditions were far worse in the Muggle military-run camps. They tended to be less successful in keeping all of their sites free of Infection.

The fact was that it just took one Infected.

Just _one_ …

It spread so quickly. Harry would always remember the first time he'd seen it happen. It was like some sadistic, mad god had clicked 'play' on the plague button and then stuck his finger down on fast-forward. It took less than a day for an Infected individual to die after contracting the virus and from that point, reanimation occurred within minutes. ReGen nipped that in the bud, of course. Every sensible person still hiding out in the city had, by now, collected a supply of the drug from a drop-off point. It wouldn't cure you, but it would keep the Infection at bay; slow down time, so to speak.

Ginny paused in her recitation of the supplies list, and gave Harry a gentle, assessing look. "Did you get all that?"

He admitted that he hadn't, so she ended up repeating the last five items, then paused when she came to the final thing on her list.

"And a crate of teddies, if you can manage it."

Harry pushed his glasses further up his nose and glanced up from his clipboard. "Silk, lace or satin?" he deadpanned.

Ginny smiled. This was something she did rarely since Ron got sick. "Teddy _bears_ , I mean. At last count, we have about fifty children here and not many toys. There was a vote as to what most of them wanted—teddies, apparently. We conjured up a fair bit of play items, of course. But some of the twitchier Muggles don't want their kids playing with anything magic. And sadly, this includes _other_ kids."

"Funny how they seem willing enough to put up with the tents, the food and the medicine…"

"Don't mind them. Remember that they only found out about all of us barely three months ago," Ginny reminded. "They're just scared."

"You are as kind as you are beautiful," said Harry, with mock solemnity. "And you shall have your teddy bears."

"Thank you. Now do write it down before you forget."

He wrote it down. The list was written in triplicate. One copy was dispatched to the military supply barracks at St John's Hill, for however long it would stand. One copy stayed with Scrimgeour. The third copy was given to Padma and Honoria Cloot, who packed the medicines.

"Is that all of it?" Harry asked.

"Yes." She eyed him for a moment. "Harry, when can you come? Not permanently, I mean. I know you and Hermione have the mission, but I'm talking about a quick visit."

Harry wished it was night-time. He wished that most of the people wandering about the house were asleep and not liable to knock on the door at any minute to come in for a much needed kip on the old lounge. Or to see if there was time left in the Floo transmission allocation so they could chat with a loved one. 

He wished for some privacy.

Harry lowered his voice and hoped he didn't sound as morose as he felt. "I'm sorry Gin. I want to go. Very much, but I can't just yet."

She leant closer into the fire. Even tinged Floo-green and skinnier than she ought to ever be, she was beautiful—bright red hair cut growing out from a a year-old bob, and big blue eyes. It was a testament to how exhausted Harry felt, that all he longed to do with Ginny was spoon up behind her, anchor himself to her slender frame and sleep the sleep of the (untroubled) dead. Perhaps he would dream of waking up to a breakfast cooked by Molly Weasley, who, bless her, thought that bacon made up three of the five food groups.

"I miss you," she whispered. 

"I miss you, too."

"Maybe I could come to London for a bit?" Ginny hazarded. She glanced to her left and nodded to someone who walked into the room, on her end of the transmission. Harry was reminded that privacy was also at a premium at Taransay.

"Not a chance! It's called a safety zone for a reason. It's _safe_. Besides, if you come here, you'll have to get medical clearance to go back, and you remember how you hated the tests from last—Ginny?"

She wasn't looking at him anymore. Ginny was frowning at whomever was speaking to her. She stood. All Harry could see was her denim-clad lower half and her hands, which were clasped together now—tightly.

"Gin?"

And then he heard the shouting, followed by the familiar sharp staccato bursts of automatic gun fire. Suddenly she was kneeling at the fireplace to speak to him. The look on her face robbed him of breath.

"Oh, Merlin. Harry…Harry they're _here_."

Now he was kneeling at the fire, too, so close to her that he could see every freckle standing out against the paleness of her skin. "What do you mean they're there?" But he knew what she meant. And she knew that he knew.

The other person spoke to her again and she tried to wave them off. But they didn't go and Harry didn't know whether to thank them or hate them for pulling Ginny to her feet and drag her away from the fire. To safety, he hoped.

After an agonising few minutes, Neville Longbottom's haggard face appeared in the green flames. "Harry! Is Scrimgeour with you right now?"

"Neville! No, he's upstairs. What in Merlin's name is happening?"

"We don't know how they got here. There was—the guards said there was a barge of some sort that floated over from the mainland. It shouldn't have happened! We should have been bloody watching the coast!"

"Never mind that! How many?" Harry demanded. He wanted to reach through the fire and shake some coherence into his friend. "Tell me! What do you need us to do?"

"Send help! We—"

Neville disappeared. The Floo transmission timed out and the green flames began to fizzle.

The fire snuffed out.

Harry was already sprinting up the stairs.

* * *

Hermione knew exactly what he'd do.

She'd known the moment the Minister shut the door and said to Harry to calm down, to sit, to listen. This is why she ran to the attic just in time to see Harry strap on his flying vambraces and protective, padded leather vest.

"Leave off, Hermione," Harry said, without looking at her. He pulled straps through the metal loops and secured them with Velcro. "I'm going."

It was now two hours since Taransay had been compromised and in that time, all Floo communication attempts to the Island had been unsuccessful. Three owls sent—all returned with their missives still attached to their legs. Scrimgeour had made his decision and for the umpteenth time, Hermione was glad she didn't have his job. He would not allow Harry to use the Portkey because crazy unsanctioned missions were _not_ what the Portkey was for. There were two-hundred and twenty-five able-bodied wizards and witches on Taransay Island, which was enough to defend the community from an unexpected zombie horde.

Probably.

So what could _one_ additional wizard do? Even if that wizard was Harry?

But it was precisely because he was Harry that Harry would go. Hermione wanted very much to believe that Harry truly had the power to overcome insurmountable odds, to make miracles happen, to be the story-book hero that always triumphed. After all, he had done this so many times in the past. Though, that had been before the Infection. Here was a problem that could not be conquered even with Harry's courage and preternatural luck. This was…well, it was quite frankly beyond him to single-handedly fix.

Hermione walked up to him. "Take this," she said, handing Harry a utility belt laden with what looked like ampules of absinthe. He gave her an impatient, questioning look, which immediately softened when he noticed her red eyes.

"It's Zombie napalm," she explained.

"Padma's?"

She shook her head. "No, one of my prototypes. Just remember to keep your distance when you launch one. Ten meters at the very least."

Harry remained standing beside the open window, broom propped up against the frame. A breeze was blowing. His hair was ridiculously long, she thought. But oddly, the wild look suited him. His hair would never take a part, or a combing, without a fight.

"Thanks."

Hermione threw herself into his arms. Ron had once said she didn't know how to hug without making it seem like it was the last time she was going to see a person. It wasn't her fault. Many of her hugs seemed to happen at precisely those kinds of moments. And regrettably, there had been too many such moments in their relatively short lives.

"Please don't go, Harry," she pleaded, just in case he decided to be amenable to reason.

"I have to go," he insisted. "I know I have responsibilities here..." he said, echoing one of Scrimgeour's reasons for denying Harry the permission he'd sought." But it's Ginny and the family…" His voice caught.

She squeezed his hand. "It's alright, Harry. I know."

"I'm not taking anyone else away from this operation. Scrimgeour has it right. You and the others are important. You need to keep working on a cure."

"And you think you're not important?"

He gave her a rare look; a look that said he understood something she did not. "This war is going to be won with this," he told her, touching her lightly at her temple, "not with this." He palmed his holstered wand.

"No. We need _both_. We need you."

He didn't reply. Hermione released his hands and watched in misery as he pulled on his flying goggles, strapped on the utility belt and picked up his broom. With a heavy sigh, she reached out to touch him on the arm. Harry turned to face her with a resigned, tender expression and opened his mouth to reassure her that yes, he would take care.

But that was not all she wanted from him. "There's one last thing, Harry. I'll need the other end of Malfoy's tether."

The tender look faltered a little. Hermione did not want to have to be the one to remember the bigger picture, to put the mission above what she really wanted to do and say. She did not want Harry to look at her this way now, like she was someone he loved, but sometimes struggled to recognise.

Without a word, he hiked up his right vambrace and after a breath or two of concentration, the golden skein appeared. Hermione untied it and then waited as Harry knotted it around her wrist instead.

"Good luck," he whispered. He kissed her on the top of her head and then launched onto his broom.

Hermione remained at the window, watching the sky above the rooftops until she could no longer see him. And then she allowed herself a minute or so of quiet tears. When it was time to shut the window, she looked down at the street and was startled to see him.

Corrections— _it_

One of the Infected.

It had once been a teenager. No more than sixteen or seventeen. Now, it wore the skin of its victim, including a red hoodie and black shorts. The zombie was in good shape, having retained all its appendages, eyes and skin, and sported no outward signs of bites or mangling.

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was magically veiled from prying eyes on the street, but opening the attic window effectively permitted a glimpse into the house. The zombie had probably been making its way down the street when the ripples in the veil had caught its attention, the same way a waggling finger could attract a goldfish in a bowl.

Unlike a goldfish, however, it wasn't just looking, it was _seeing_. Hermione stared back, disconcerted to find herself the object of its seemingly rapt attention. But that couldn't be. The Infected were not capable of attention, rapt or otherwise.

And as if to allay her concerns, the zombie turned away and resumed its shuffle down the street. Hermione watched its progress. She mentally filed the incident away and then went to break the news of Harry's unauthorised departure to Scrimgeour. 


	5. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercer and Hermione speculate about Red Hoodie. The prisoner is promised a bath. Draco's appearance causes a stir in the house (even before he takes his shirt off).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.

After half an hour of searching, Dr Alec Mercer finally found Hermione in the attic.

She was at the window, looking down at the street. There were no streetlights anymore, but it was a full moon. Everyone in the house was acutely aware of the lunar cycle because Felix Wallen (resident microbiologist and occasional lycanthrope) was currently occupying one of the cells in the lower basement level. There, he waited out his transformation with the assistance of Wolfsbane Potion.

"There you are!" Mercer said, shutting the attic door behind him. His bag of potato crisps was conspicuously absent. Hermione suspected Padma had had something to do with that. "I've been up and down the house looking for you. Patil was concerned you'd flown off to join Potter."

Hermione gave him a small smile. "Not likely. I don't really fly much. Or _at all_ , more like it."

"Oh? I thought all you magical folk had broomsticks?"

"It seems I'm missing the aptitude," she confessed. "You said Padma needed me?"

"Yes. Luthor's asking for you."

It took Hermione a moment to remember that Mercer was referring to Malfoy.

"What does he want?"

The Australian scientist overturned an empty crate and dragged it over to the window to sit beside her. "He won't say anything other than, _send for the Mudblood_." Mercer effectively mimicked Malfoy's finely-calibrated, imperious way of speaking. "I asked Patil about him and she said that you've known him since you were kids. Please tell me that he had a horrible adolescence involving shortness, bad skin, hand-me-downs and bullying?"

This managed to garner a snort from Hermione. "Sadly, no. As for the bullying, suffice to say that he perpetrated most of it."

Mercer nodded. "Yeah, I've known guys like him."

Hermione shook her head. "Not like Malfoy, you haven't." 

"The name he called you - 'Mudblood'. Does it mean what I think it does? If so, I apologise for repeating it."

"It's OK. You weren't to know," Hermione reassured him. "And it's certainly not the first time he's used that particular slur on me."

"The more I hear about how you guys spent your childhood, the more surprised I am that any of you made it out of school alive."

"You've been speaking to Harry, huh?" Hermione surmised.

"Nah. Honoria told me all about Hogwarts. She was a couple of years ahead of you, apparently. Sounded pretty rough, to be honest."

"It had its moments."

He peered out the window. "Why are you up here, anyway?"

Hermione beckoned him closer toward the window. "Come and take a look at this. Tell me what you see."

Mercer stood next to her and stared out onto the street, quickly locating the source of her apparent concern.

It was the young zombie in the red hoodie again. They were silent for a minute, and then Mercer whistled low. "'S'truth, he's _watching us._ "

"Exactly," said Hermione. "He was there earlier when Harry left. I think he must have seen the window open. I assumed that the movement simply caught his attention. But now he's back." She folded her arms and regarded Mercer with a troubled expression. "Alec, you're the brain expert, what do you think this means?" Apart from the fact we're referring to it as 'him', Hermione thought. When did that start happening?

Mercer considered the possibilities. "If he's watching and waiting, this looks to be more than just implicit memory at work. That's declarative memory. He's processing something semantic—that a window opened and he's managed to combine that fact with the personal experience of walking down Grimmauld Place earlier and remembering that a window suddenly appeared in between numbers eleven and thirteen…"

Hermione frowned. "But that means he remembered! I thought that was impossible?"

"It ought to be given the level of deterioration we've seen in the hippocampus and the lateral prefrontal cortex."

"So what, then? They're evolving?"

Mercer rubbed his jaw. "Not them, the virus. I'll speak with McAlister. It's likely the virus has mutated and it just isn't doing what it once did. By the way, speaking of terrifying, underwear-soiling prospects, I've been hearing talk of an excursion to a hospital."

"You heard right. I've discussed with Scrimgeour the idea of having Ron undergo an MRI scan." Hermione gave Mercer a sympathetic look. "If we go…"

"I'll have to come," he surmised. "Resident brain expert, and all."

"Look, I'll understand if you—"

"Hell, yes, I'll go! And while we're there, I'm thinking it might be a good idea to also have a look at one of the Infected, if we can manage it?"

Hermione's eyes widened. "You want to give a zombie in a MRI scan?"

Mercer nodded; a familiar, manic gleam in his eye. Hermione knew she sometimes sported the same look and vaguely wondered if the expression on her face right now mirrored the one Harry sometimes wore in response to her own Eureka moments.

 _Oh, Harry_. She couldn't handle thinking about him without her stomach doing summersaults. Still no word. 

"Think of all we could learn!" Mercer was saying.

He then proceeded to list, in painstakingly fine, neurobiochemical detail, all that they could learn. He didn't really need to do this, because he had her at, "It could be the key to helping Ron."

* * *

Shortly before midnight, Hermione made her way downstairs to the containment cells.

A few minutes were spent looking in on Ron (no change), a further minute spent checking on a slumbering Dr Wallen (who was making bone-chilling, growling noises in his sleep), before she finally stopped at Malfoy's cell.

He was pacing—no— _prowling_ , his long legs eating up the floor. Hermione sensed extreme annoyance. She also sensed it was directed at her tardiness in responding to his demand to see her.

She took out her wand and this time, kept a safe distance. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

He didn't smirk at her. Oh yes, he was most definitely annoyed. "What do I want? Let me see… A city? A house? A room? Maybe a bed?" He paused. "How about a woman?"

 _The shining joy and jewel of all my kingdom,_ Hermione silently completed the last line of the Sanskrit poem he was alluding to. And then promptly wanted to kick herself. Romantic poetry and Draco Malfoy was a match made in lunacy. He excelled at making her distinctly unsettled on levels she didn't want to give any further thought to.

"We're fresh out of all the above," she said, in a flat tone. "What else?"

Malfoy walked to the bars and Hermione surreptitiously double-checked that she was well out of arm's reach. He saw that little flicker of concern and of course the bastard rewarded her with a small, knowing look. He was markedly less presentable than he'd been four days ago, now sporting a dark blonde shadow over the lower half of his face, and still wearing the same set of black, prison robes. Only now they were wrinkled and dusty at the knees. Padma had given him some salve and a bandage for his injured hand. The scratches she'd given him probably stung. Good. 

He toyed absently with the bandage now." Let's start with a bath," he said, and she believed him.

"That I can do, but I'd like the missing section of your D.R.A.C.O formula."

He snorted. "Hardly a fair trade."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How long has it been since you've had a bath?"

Six years, she'd wager. Hermione had read the specifications for Seamus' automated prison cell. The cell's magic meant that a daily cleansing charm refreshed the bedding and the prisoner's clothing. It also eliminated dust, grime and dirt on _everything_ —prisoner included. Basic grooming spells were set to operate at the start of each day. Hair and nails maintained at a pre-programmed length. The only source of non-drinking water present inside the cell was in the toilet, which had no flush. Waste was automatically transferred to a septic management facility outside the prison.

"Allow me a bath and perhaps my mood will be so significantly improved that I may just provide you with an additional page?" He raised both eyebrows in eagerness, and this wiped about five years off his face. "What do you say?"

She'd probably say that he must _really_ want a bath. After years of 'dry cleaning', even a cold shower would be high on anyone's list of superficial wants.

"Frankly, I doubt I'd notice or care if your mood improved."

He regarded her with amused quizzicality. "I don't remember you being quite so flippant."

"I don't remember you being quite so completely at my mercy."

Malfoy laughed—short and sharp. "Touché, Mudblood."

"Don't call me that."

He watched her, carefully. "But it doesn't bother you, does it? How curious. You realise I can _see_ that it doesn't. The others turn purple and apoplectic. You merely roll your eyes. Tell me, is it the word, or is it just me? Don't say I've lost my edge since Hogwarts?"

"No, more likely I've gained one." Hermione took in a breath, stepped forward and prepared to unlock the door to his cell.

He remained within the cell, still watching her with the assessing gaze of a predatory bird. It was now or never. Eventually, he would have to be tamed enough to venture upstairs to work with the others in the lab. His previous attempt to convince her that she should trust his commitment to self-preservation had provided Hermione with much food for thought over the past few days. She hoped she wouldn't live to regret her decision, or the fact that Malfoy was tethered to her now. Like so much else, Draco Malfoy had become her responsibility as well. 

"Let us be clear, Death Eater. Escape and your pardon will be withdrawn. Hurt me or anyone else and your pardon will be withdrawn. It's martial law on the streets for both Muggles and Magicals. Law enforcement and vigilante mobs have been known to execute looters. So consider what they'd do to a convicted murderer and terrorist." She slid the door open. "That's if you're not killed by the Infected. Do you understand?"

He stepped out of the cell, walked around her, crowding her again. Hermione suspected he could be on the other end of the corridor and _still_ manage to crowd her. She tightened her grip on her wand and remained stock-still. Malfoy walked the length of the basement corridor, pausing at both Wallen's and Ron's cells, respectively. Having been incarcerated in the basement for four days, he was likely well aware of both Ron and Wallen's respective conditions.

There, lying in that hospital bed, was her Achilles' heel. Hermione could steel herself against any manner of barbs Malfoy threw at her about her blood, her intellect, her worthiness, but not about Ron. Now with Harry at Taransay, she felt even more vulnerable, more exposed, less… _strong_. Curiously, she didn't feel more alone, though. Being an only child and caught between two worlds for so long, alone was a state of affairs she was accustomed to.

She steeled herself for Malfoy's comments and the cruel, calculated jibes about Ron. 

They didn't come.

Whatever he was thinking, Malfoy kept his thoughts to himself. Hermione wasn't naïve enough to believe it was due to any regard for her feelings. Rather, she suspected he knew her charity and patience had limits.

His curiosity about his immediate environment now appeased, Malfoy finally walked over to her. The top of her head barely reached his shoulders.

"I understand," he said.

Despite being unwashed for four days, he didn't exactly reek as Ron or Harry would most certainly have. She supposed he just smelled more strongly of himself. It wasn't unpleasant. She didn't know what it was, but she seemed aware of it, all the same. It was probably her frayed nerves. Frankly, part of her was still expecting him to snap her neck the first chance he got.

Hermione led him up the stairs and past the labs, where several staff members were still working. Music drifted out. Someone was playing Michael Bublé. One of the younger mediwitches appeared, took one look at Malfoy before scurrying back inside the lab. Hermione thought she might have even detected a squeak. A moment later, there were five people standing outside the lab entrance, all gawking.

The British wizarding members among the staff were well aware of Malfoy's identity. Those who did not know—and this comprised their Muggle and overseas experts—had since been filled in through the rapid information transfer of gossip. 

"Evening, everyone," said Hermione, tersely. Honestly, she's expected a little more professionalism.

There were distracted nods and a few mummers. The group parted to make way for Elizabeth Kent, one of the Wizarding Intelligence Agents from the US. She exited the labs and came to a halt before Hermione and Malfoy. Hermione sighed, sensing the imminent application of liberal quantities of red tape.

"You're not authorised to release the Subject," Kent said to Hermione, as predicted.

Hermione was in no mood to be diplomatic. "The Subject would like a bath. Go and run to Scrimgeour if you have a problem with it. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to be woken up in the middle of the night after being awake for two days straight."

"You must be the Debutante," Malfoy said, in a honey and cinnamon voice that made Hermione roll her eyes. "I've heard quite a bit about you."

Kent was young, tall, lithe, blonde and severely proper, along with possessing the warmth and charisma of a metal stool. Nevertheless, and to Hermione's resigned fascination, the Agent flushed bright red under Malfoy's calculated scrutiny. It was a completely superficial point, but Hermione felt twice as short and frumpy, standing beside the lanky pair.

"Malfoy, this is one of our associates from the US Wizarding Senate, Agent Elizabeth Kent. Elizabeth, this is Draco Malfoy. Or the 'Subject', as you prefer to call him."

"Shouldn't he be shackled?" Kent had regained her alabaster complexion and was looking down her perfect nose, at Hermione.

Hermione counted to five before replying. "He's not going to be able to work in the laboratory if he's handcuffed, is he?"

"And what about the tether? How is it going to work if Potter's not here?"

 _Damn it_. Hermione had not been intending to reveal to Malfoy just yet that she was his tether-partner, or that Harry had left London. Oh well, it was inevitable that he'd find out.

"He's tethered to me now," Hermione said.

"Am I?" Malfoy drawled, almost under his breath.

"Yes."

He stood very close to Hermione, giving her a smile without teeth. "Interesting."

"I think the word you're looking for is _necessary_."

It occurred to Hermione that everyone was watching them. Kent, especially.

She cleared her throat. "Agent Kent, if there is nothing further, I'd like to show Malfoy the bathroom?"

* * *

There was a bathroom on the laboratory level, though it was seldom used except in the event of someone catching fire (a fascinated Mercer had asked Harry for a demonstration of _incendio_ ), or when large pieces of equipment needed to be cleaned.

The claw-footed tub in the middle of the green and black tiled room was large and therefore would suit just fine. There was no mirror in the bathroom. A minute or so was spent checking that there was also nothing sharp, pointy, blunt or heavy to be found in the only cupboard. There were just towels, soap and a tin of shoe polish. Hermione pocketed the shoe polish. She took soap and a towel from the cupboard, paused, and then grabbed a second towel. Malfoy would probably need two, she decided.

She handed him these items, which he took in one arm, without thanks. "I'm locking you in," Hermione said, her voice echoing off the tile in the cavernous room. "Will one hour suffice?" She checked her wrist watch. It was almost one in the morning.

"An hour is plenty," Malfoy said. He had already unfastened the cuffs of his prison robes and was making quick work of the buttons down the front.

Hermione discreetly turned around, walked out the door and shut it behind her. She locked it and then leaned against it, closing her eyes. The day could not possibly get any longer.

She was wrong.

There were three quick knocks from the other side of the door. Her eyes snapped open. Frowning, she removed the locking charm and opened the door.

"The taps aren't working," he said.

The top half of Malfoy's robes were on the floor, which left him in a pair of black trousers with the waistband already unbuttoned. His body was as pale as the rest of him, with a light, sparse dusting of golden hair across his chest and forearms. He was very lean, but there was a surprising amount of muscle on him, considering the fact he'd been confined to a room for six years.

But it was the latticework of scars along his abdomen and back that caught her attention. There were, quite literally, _dozens_ of fine, raised, diagonal white lines bisecting the taught skin of his belly and back. The longest ones ran over his hip muscles, disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers. The scars were obviously healed now, but the sheer number of them meant that at some point in time, his torso would have been a raw and bloody mess. A life-threatening mess, perhaps. Hermione's sterling imagination supplied the likely image of the fresh injuries and she couldn't help but wince. 

To her annoyance, his expression was unreadable. Being Hermione, she took the express route to assuaging her curiosity. "What happened to you?" A likely suspect popped into her head. "Was it Voldemort?"

He was silent for a moment, and then, "Would you prefer that it had been?"

She didn't understand his question. "I would prefer an honest answer."

Almost absently, he looked down at his belly, running the tips of one long-fingered hand over the white scar tissue. She wondered if he probably forgot they were there most of the time.

"I was nineteen. Three Aurors captured me and another Death Eater. Unlike my colleague, I was of no use to them, so they shared a bottle of gin and took turns with a flat razor."

Hermione was somewhat relieved to note that she was not so desensitised to not be affected by what Malfoy had just told her. Even if was him doing the telling. There had always been rumours of bad eggs within the DMLE. The thing about old, entrenched systems was that they tended to develop a life of their own. After a while, the system became a living breathing thing and it defended itself at any hint of an attempt to cut off a necrotic arm or leg, even at risk of poisoning the rest of the body. It was a different kind of slower, more insidious Infection.

"You said you were of no use to them. Do you mean you had no information that would have been important enough to bring you into custody?"

"No," he said. "I was of no use to them because unlike my more unfortunate colleague, _I wasn't a girl_."

Hermione felt ill. She glanced down at her hands for a moment, which she had clasped around her wand, before looking up. "Bad people are to be found anywhere, if you care to look." There seemed to be nothing else suitable to say.

He smiled at her. There was nothing friendly about it. It was a cold smile, full of swirling darkness. "Indeed. There happens to be one right here in this room."

The moment of shared humanity between them dissipated like so much smoke. Hermione supposed it may have only happened in her own mind. The sinister look faded, and he went back to being impatient again.

"Are you going to fix the water supply or not?"

Oh _. Right._

She removed the default water rationing spells over the plumbing, and then twisted the brass, hot water tap. The pipes bellowed for a moment, before gushing hot water. "There you go."

Again, there was no 'thank you', just the unnerving, ever-constant, damnable, watching. Not completely unlike the zombie in the red hoodie, Hermione thought, with a mental shudder. His hands were on the waistband of his trousers when Hermione hurriedly shut the bathroom door behind her and locked it for the second time. She scowled down at her own hands, which were shaking slightly. With an hour to kill, Hermione thought she might sneak a much-needed swig or two from Kate McAlister's supply of Equilibrium Restorer (a.k.a aged whiskey) in the kitchen cupboards.

It was that kind of night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the poem it its entirety. Author unknown.
> 
> Although I conquer all the earth,  
> Yet for me there is only one city.  
> In that city there is for me only one house;  
> And in that house, one room only;  
> And in that room, a bed.  
> And one woman sleeps there,  
> The shining joy and jewel of all my kingdom


	6. Goldilocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After acquiring a zombie specimen, a dangerous mission to a hospital is planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.

"Baby Bear to Mama Bear, I'm in the cottage," came Emily Finch's static-tinged voice through the headset. The student nurse was loitering conspicuously at the mouth of an alley.

"I hear you and see you, Baby Bear. You're doing brilliantly. Just sit tight until Papa Bear gives us the signal, OK?"

"I think you're meant to say 'copy that'," Padma suggested.

"Oh?"

From their vantage point over a terrace roof top, Padma and Hermione were watching their morning mission unfold.

Padma rolled her eyes. "Are the call signs really necessary?"

Hermione shrugged. "What's life without whimsy?" She was fully occupied watching Emily's position through a pair of binoculars.

"Whimsy?" Padma muttered. "We're about to use an eighteen year old girl as bait!"

It occurred to Hermione that she, Harry and Padma often applied vastly different standards of maturity to the younger team members in their charge. She supposed they could be accused of being slightly hypocritical, considering that Hermione and Harry, in particular, had regularly put themselves in dangerous situations since before puberty. Albus Dumbledore had been either very confident in their abilities, or he had some rather relaxed views regarding child endangerment. Neither theory was palatable, frankly.

"She volunteered for this," Hermione pointed out to Padma.

"I suppose the field of contenders for the two-hundred meter zombie dash was rather thin," said Padma.

"Emily was a track and field star at her college back in the US. She thought she could help."

Agent Richards' gravelly baritone came through the headset. "Papa Bear now in position. We're ready."

"These headsets are posh."

Hermione was in agreement. "Got to hand it to the Americans—they don't do things by halves."

The two women sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying a rare dose of unimpeded mid-morning sunshine, already a rarity in London under normal circumstances. Padma took a sip from her water bottle and then offered it to a grateful Hermione, whose fair skin was already sunburnt.

"Why call this operation _Goldilocks_ , though? I always found that story rather disturbing."

"The Cowboy's idea," Hermione said. "Apparently Mercer wanted the specimen to be 'just right'."

"And how are we going to guarantee that?" Padma asked. "We're not going to have much choice in whatever Emily manages to lure into that alley."

Hermione sat up in rigid attention, adjusting the binoculars "Speaking of—here we go! Baby Bear, Goldilocks in on approach. Merlin, we have ten! No, make that twelve! Richards? I mean, Papa Bear, do you see this?"

"Yeah, I see 'em," said Richards. "More importantly, Baby Bear, _they see you_. Goldilocks is on the move! Finch, you get on your starting block, you hear?"

Everyone could hear Emily's ragged breathing. "Oh, Jesus," the girl whispered. A few profanities followed. Hermione concurred heartily with them all.

"I don't like this," Padma said.

"Nor I," admitted Hermione.

 _One minute_.

"Closing in…" Hermione told the team.

"Now?" Emily hissed.

"Not yet," said the Cowboy. "Wait."

_Thirty seconds._

Hermione was practically hanging over the roof parapet now. "Papa Bear, are you sure? They're speeding up."

_Twenty seconds._

" _Now_?" Emily implored.

"Almost," said Richards. "We don't want them to quit the chase as soon as she's out of sight; their vision is based on movement. Like T-Rex, remember?"

"That's not technically accurate," Padma said. "The Tyrannosaurus Rex's vision was actually more sophisticated than—"

"NOW! NOW! NOW!" shouted Richards, nearly perforating Hermione's ear drum. "Baby Bear, GO!"

Emily ran, blowing a whistle as she went. As predicted, the zombies gave chase. The noise and movement was impressive for a relatively small group. They snarled, goose-stepped and lurched. The scene might have been comical if it weren't straight out of a nightmare. All of the team members had seen what happened when even the most lumbering, seemingly inept horde got a hold of fresh meat. They ripped into it like day-old bread.

"Damn, she's fast!" Padma observed.

Hermione's chest hurt from holding her breath. "Good thing, too! They're nearly at the fence! Wallen! Yoshida! Are you ready?"

Felix Wallen's soft, steady, voice sounded over the radio. "We're ready."

Emily hit the fence running, fairly leaping onto it. She scrambled over with impressive athleticism and was met on the other side by the ever stoic Wallen and Professor Yoshida.

The zombies collided with the metal fence so violently that some of the pack members at the front were crushed; pulpy, severely decomposed bodies splitting against rusted metal, spilling putrid viscous fluid that was the colour of pus. Their feral bloodlust destroyed any sense of culinary discretion they might have had and the remaining pack members began to feed on their incapacitated counterparts. The weight pushing against the fence intensified. It began to creak and buckle.

"It's going to fall over," Padma predicted.

"Now, Wallen!" Hermione yelled.

Wallen and Yoshida went on a _petrificus_ free-for all. In short time the entire pack was frozen in place. Many lay on the ground, in pieces. The remainder of the team Apparated into the alley, regrouping on the other side of the fence.

"That was close!" Padma said, clutching Hermione's arm in relief.

Professor Yoshida gave Emily a high-five.

Hermione approached the fence, trying to make out where one creature started and another began. Unfortunately, there weren't many viable specimens left. Nearly all were sporting serious mangling from the feeding frenzy. In due course, however, an intact specimen was located. They carefully levitated it over the fence. Padma slid a stretcher beneath the _petrified_ creature, before wrapping it up with a tarp.

The team (now heavy one zombie) Disapparated for Grimmauld Place.

* * *

Back in the laboratory, Alec Mercer's eyes widened as he inspected the captured specimen. To say they had acquired a large zombie was putting it mildly.

"I ask for fun size, you bring me _Thor_."

Hermione tilted her head to the side, as if the new angle would allow the enormous zombie to fit better into her field of vision, "It's not about size, Alec. It's what you do with it."

Mercer chuckled.

"Were you concerned about it being too big for the machine?"

"I just thought a small specimen would be easier to transport. Technically, all that needs to fit in the MRI is its head."

Hermione was halfway out the door. She had a mission briefing to plan. "Good, because he was the only member in that group that still had one left."

* * *

Following the successful capture of the zombie behemoth, the mission briefing for the hospital visit the next day was well-attended.

Research and medical staff, Ministry clerks, two government agents and one Minister for Magic gathered in the meeting room on the second floor. The Minister handed out copies of the mission plan and route diagrams. There was about ten minutes of silent reading. Hermione stood in a corner of the room beside the blacked-out windows.

Scrimgeour waited until everyone was looking at him again before he spoke.

"As you can see we've selected Welwyn Clinic at Devonshire Place. It's a small radiology operation with two MRI machines and I am told boasts an impressive array of backup generators that are partially fed by solar power. Agent Richards and Hermione Granger have already been to the site this morning to inspect the machines and they assure me that both are still functioning, and more importantly, they are turned on."

"If the hospital still has power, why would it have been a problem if they were switched off?" Honoria Cloot asked.

"You can't simply turn on a MRI machine that has been powered off," Mercer explained. "It would take too long."

"Timing is very critical. It's imperative that we complete the scans quickly," said Richards. "Every additional minute spent there puts us at risk and we will already be moving a damn sight slower on account of lugging our two specimens around."

"One specimen," Hermione corrected, coolly. "One _patient_ and one specimen."

Richards' returning stare was just as cool. "Sure."

"You'll be Apparating to the clinic in two teams," Scrimgeour continued. "The first team will arrive at the designated entry point to ensure a clear path to the nearest machine. Once a safe route has been established, the rest of the team, who will be carting Mr Weasley and the specimen, will follow."

Here, Scrimgeour addressed Mercer, the only Muggle on the mission. "As you are aware, Dr Mercer, Apparation can only be undertaken if the Apparator has already been to a destination once before. This, of course, does not apply to side-long Apparation. I am assured that our London regulars, Hermione and Honoria, are already quite familiar with the street and the clinic, so you'll be travelling side-along."

"Great," said Mercer. "I threw up over Dr Patil's shoes last time."

Padma nodded vigorously. "They were suede. I had to throw them out."

"There are two last-minute additions to the team. Jason Lam, being the only other person with experience in…" Scrimgeour looked to Mercer for assistance with the phrase he had only recently been introduced to.

"Medical imaging," he supplied.

"Medical imaging," Scrimgeour echoed, "will therefore assist Dr Mercer with the machine operation. Provided there are no objections from Mr Lam? Needless to say, this is a voluntary mission."

"No objections," said Lam, who was a Muggleborn mediwizad student and a protégé of Mercer's.

"Dr Mercer, you are certain one person will be sufficient to assist you in your task?"

Mercer nodded. "Jason's as capable as two technicians."

"Good," said Scrimgeour. "Our mediwitches, Honoria Cloot and Mira Khan, will transport Mr Weasley." Scrimgeour addressed Aisha Malik, a young trauma nurse in a bright yellow headscarf, "I'm sorry Ms Malik, I know you expressly volunteered, however, wands are a necessity as Mr Weasley will have to be maintained in a stable state of magical petrification during the course of the mission. We need all we can supply. You will remain behind."

"I understand," said the nurse.

"Mr Lam and Dr Mercer will be responsible for the specimen. Agents Richards and Kent, Miss Granger and myself will be on security detail."

Both Padma and Hermione raised protests at the same time.

"With all due respect," Padma began, "I distinctly recall you saying that at least one senior security officer is to remain at this facility at all times. What if we receive word from Taransay while you're away?"

Clearly irritated, the Minister turned to the Cowboy. "Agent Richards, it appears you were correct in your estimation of the likely reaction to my inclusion on the team. Translate, would you?"

"You can't come because you're lame. You'll slow us down, at best. Put us all in danger, at worst," said the Cowboy.

Hermione scowled at Richards' bluntness.

Scrimgeour sat down heavily, propping the aforementioned lame left leg out in front of him. "Hermione, this is true?"

"You're needed here," was all she said.

He sighed. "We need a fourth on the security team. In all my years of planning missions, I have _never_ sent out a team of only three."

Emily Finch spoke up. "Sir, if I may?"

"No, you may not, Miss Finch, you've done quite enough for us this week. Besides, I have an alternative in mind."

Scrimgeour's eyes met Hermione's. Her look of disbelief told him she knew exactly whom he was planning to volunteer. It was clear he had already discussed the candidate with the Americans.

" _No_ ," Hermione said.

"Malfoy will be your fourth."

The room erupted into protests.

Hermione was incredulous. "The only way Malfoy can break free of his tether is if he kills the person he's tethered to, and that's more likely to happen if he has access to a wand. How is he to be of any use on the mission if he can't defend himself, let alone any of us? I mean, you're not seriously proposing we allow him to have a wand?"

Scrimgeour shood his head. "Not a wand." A slight nod from him sent Agent Kent to a large cabinet, which she unlocked and then entered. The front of the cabinet was clearly the façade of a Reduced storage vault. She emerged moments later, walked over to Scrimgeour's desk and none too gently placed a large, pump action shotgun upon it.

"We propose that the Subject be allowed use of a Remington 870 instead," she told the assembled group, with the ghost of a smirk directed at Hermione.

Alec Mercer's hand tentatively rose into the air. "Um, can I get one of those?"


	7. Greater Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cowboy tells Hermione about an uncomfortable theory. The Project Christmas Team visit a clinic to use the MRI machine, accompanied by a gun-toting, Draco Malfoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.

Still wearing her pajamas, Hermione blew over her mug of tea as she walked to the back of the house and let herself out to the small patch of garden. Mediwitch Mira Khan had tried her best to grow medicinal herbs there, but the ground was more clay than dirt. Hermione had been anticipating spending a quiet minute or two sitting on the back steps, contemplating her worn bedroom slippers and then watching the sun rise.

When she got there, however, she was surprised to see Professor Yoshida standing barefoot in the half-light, wearing pristine robes that were as white as his hair. He had his eyes closed and his lips were moving in what looked like silent prayer. Thinking he probably wished to be alone, Hermione made to retreat back inside the house, but the Professor turned around and gave her a bow.

"Hallo Hermione."

She set her mug down on the step and walked out to greet him. "Good morning, Professor. You're up early."

He smiled the smile of kindly grandads everywhere. "I make this." He held up two, small wooden plaques, on which Hermione could see etchings of horses in gallop, accompanied by beautifully intricate Japanese calligraphy. "I make _ema_ for Harry Potter and for team today," Yoshida explained.

Hermione understood that it was impractical for her to walk around feeling anxious to the point of incapacitation about what had happened (or _was_ happening) to Harry and the Weasleys. Hermione had never been the sort to catastrophize. And good thing, too, else she and the boys would likely not have made it to their fourth year at Hogwarts. So she was good at putting her fears side until she was alone and able to give in to the panic at the very _idea_ of losing Harry. The consequence of compartmentalising her fears was that when someone else unexpectedly brought it up, it caused the bottom to drop out of her world very briefly and it took small doses of concentrated effort to put herself to rights again. Sometime she failed at this. This was one such time.

A lump settled in her throat as she took one of the little plaques from Yoshida and ran her thumb over the etchings he had carved. "What is it?" she whispered, not trusting her usual speaking voice to not crack.

Yoshida thought for a moment, harnessing his relatively recently command of English. "It is _Shinto_ ," he said, gently. "I write wish for Harry Potter come home. And you and team to come home. Today. All safe. All happy. I make my wish to _kami_ , you see?" The Potions Master traced one wrinkled finger across the calligraphy. "Kami is..." he gestured around the garden, pointed at the house and the neighbouring terraces, and looked up at the sky, spreading his arms wide, "all is kami. You. Me. Good. Bad. Grass. Tree. You see?" Professor Yoshida put the talisman in her hands and closed her fingers around them.

She did see. This was a magic that was common to Muggles and wizarding folk alike, a magic of talismans infused with the force of hope. If you lived, then you probably wanted, needed and loved. You knew what it was like to have something to lose and therefore a great deal to also hope for.

She hoped with all her might that Harry would come home.

* * *

After Yoshida left, Hermione finished her tea on the back steps as planned. She slipped Yoshida's talisman into the pocket of her pajama pants and started up the stairs.

The Cowboy stopped her at the third floor. "Just the lady I wanted to see," Richards said. It wasn't even six in the morning yet and he was already wearing his hat, set down low over his salt and pepper hair. Hermione imagined he probably slept next to it. "I thought I'd take the liberty of briefing Malfoy about the mission, today, if that's fine by you?"

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "You're asking my permission? Usually you just go over my head to Scrimgeour." She instantly regretted her words. She didn't mean to sound petty.

"You don't like me very much, do you?" Richards asked, looking amused.

The blunt question surprised her, although it shouldn't have. The Cowboy was not one to skirt around sensitive topics.

"I have the utmost respect for what you're trying to do here," she clarified. "I just don't always agree with your methods."

"Scrimgeour trusts me. You should, too."

Hermione bristled. "Likewise, Agent Richards. You don't seem to trust me to handle Malfoy."

Richards sighed. He folded his arms and stared at her, eyes narrowing. Hermione stared right back, an impatient, questioning expression on her face.

"You haven't been around men very much, have you, kiddo?" 

Well, _that_ certainly caught her off guard. How absurd. She'd been surrounded by men— _strong_ men—her whole life.

As if he could read her thoughts, he said, "I don't mean Potter, or the sick kid in the basement that used to make puppy eyes at you, or the Minister, or your old man, or teachers and instructors. I mean real, grown up boys. Nice ones and not so nice ones. And ones that don't treat you like a vestal virgin or co-saviour of the world."

"Agent Richards, if you have a point, please come to it."

"Malfoy's got designs. Scrimgeour and I, we can smell it on him. Master villainy or even just the _potential_ of it, it's got its own special stink, you know? And that man you got locked up downstairs…well it's coming off of him real strong. And that's fine," Richards said, holding up a hand, "understandable even, seeing as he's just working out a way to bust out of jail without paying for it. But the thing is he seems mighty interested in you, which makes me worry because you're meant to be his handler I don't reckon you're aware of it."

Hermione hoped she didn't look as thrown as she felt. She chose her words very carefully when she replied. "Malfoy and I have history. Perhaps that's what you're sensing?"

The Cowboy laughed. "Oh, this isn't history, darlin'. This interest is very much rooted in the present."

"Oh, for goodness' sake! Even if any of this is true, what does it matter?"

"Use it," said Richards, simply.

She opened her mouth and then shut it, frowning. "Explain."

"Look, I'm pretty sure Malfoy thinks he's got the jump on you, so you go on and let him think that. You have a chance here to play him right back. Keep it in mind the next time you see him, with your curly hair and big brown eyes and that same Chosen One attitude that Potter has. To someone like Malfoy, who's spent his formative years living in a reptile's nest, you're about as wholesome as American Pie."

Hermione turned bright red. "I don't...I'm _not_ like that."

Richards gave her a lopsided smirk. "Sure you are, and I'm not asking you to change a thing. I want Malfoy to be reminded of the fact he's just about as different from you as it's possible to be. Different is interesting. He _likes_ interesting. So you use what you have and let's hope it gets us that formula quicker. Because maybe...and mind you this is a pretty big maybe, if the villain in our little story ain't batshit crazy just yet, sometimes it pays to give him a weakness. Something unexpected to care about besides himself. Internal conflict can be a powerful catalyst for change. You remember that."

"And if you're wrong? If he won't give up the formula?"

Hermione didn't like the look in his eyes when he replied, "Like I said before, we take the kid gloves off. And I step in."

"Listen to me, Richards. No one, not even Draco Malfoy, is going to be tortured for information in this house. Certainly not while I'm here."

"Is that preferable to people dying out there because one man won't give us the information we need?"

"Not everything can be justified by the greater good."

And just like that, Hermione realised she had put herself in Harry's shoes. Merlin, this must be how Harry felt most of the time. A good chunk of her indignation evaporated.

"Miss Granger, I would justify a great deal considering that it is humanity's survival we're dealing with," Richards said, utterly serious.

She gave him a canny look. "If what you're saying is accurate, then shouldn't I be handling his mission briefing this morning?"

Richards' response was brief. "How many shotguns have you fired recently?"

"None."

And there was her answer.

* * *

The lower ground of the parking garage was deserted when the security team of four Apparated into the western corner, behind an earmarked blue sedan that had all its windows smashed in. Hermione, Malfoy and Elizabeth Kent crouched down between the car and a concrete wall while Richards undertook a quick scan of the parking level.

Fortunately, just as it had been the previous day on the scouting visit. The parking lot was empty. Overhead, the lights were still on, though other lit sections flickered on and off with a dull clinking noise. Otherwise, the city was so very quiet. That had been one of the hardest things to get used to, Hermione thought—the mausoleum silence of Infected London after the initial cacophony of sirens, gunfire, helicopters…and screaming.

"Kent and I will secure the MRI clinic," the Cowboy reiterated. "When I give you the word, you bring Malfoy first and then you go back for the rest of the team."

"Understood," Hermione said. As much as she disliked the Cowboy, he was in his element on field missions and that kind of obvious experience was confidence-inducing. This was why Scrimgeour found him to be an asset.

Richards addressed Malfoy next. "And I don't need to remind you to play nicely with everyone today."

Malfoy didn't even bother looking up, let alone replying. He was mildly preoccupied inspecting the Kevlar vest he was wearing.

Hermione wanted to throttle him. It was impossible to tell if he was taking any of this seriously. He seemed unconcerned to the point of boredom. Malfoy's inappropriate ambivalence was at complete odds with the rather intimidating figure he cut—dressed in a pair of the Cowboy's black military fatigues, utility belt packed with ammunition and a pair of combat boots (which he complained were too small). The single-point slung Remington 870 shotgun was strapped across his chest.

Guns were a foreign and unpleasant concept for Hermione. At least wands had multiple purposes. Guns had a comparatively narrow range of uses; to hurt, or to deter others from hurting.

"You good?" Richards asked her, meeting her eyes. He looked beadily from Hermione to Malfoy and then back to Hermione again.

She nodded.

"Alright, we'll be in contact very shortly." Richards Disapparated with Kent. As promised, a moment later his voice came through loud and strong over Hermione's headset. "We're in. The room is secure. Bring him."

Hermione took her wand out to Disapparate both her and Malfoy directly into the MRI clinic to join the Agents, but Malfoy chose that moment to speak to her.

"What happens to the tether if you die today?"

God damn him. The morbid question was startling, but relevant, she supposed. 

"No one is going to die today."

"Ah, but you know what they say about best laid plans," he replied cryptically. He took hold of the shotgun, grimaced down at it briefly, and then began to fill the magazine tube with shells from his utility belt. His gloved hands were surprisingly deft at a task that was still extremely new to him.

Hermione stared, thinking how very surreal it was to watch Draco Malfoy handle a dirty great Muggle gun. "I doubt you'll have need of that today."

"I hope very much that you're right," he replied.

And there was that word again— _hope_. They both shared this particular hope. In a side pocket of her cargo pants, was one of Professor Yoshida's _ema_. She reached down to feel it through the thick canvas of her trousers. Malfoy was giving her an odd look now and Hermione realised she probably seemed worryingly distracted. She blinked, refocusing her attention to the mission at hand.

He held out his hand to her, palm facing outwards, as if he was soliciting permission for a dance. "Shall we?"

Hermione's early morning conversation with Richards was fresh in her mind. She still wasn't entirely sure there was any substance to Richards' claims about Malfoy's interest in her, or indeed, any merit to his argument that Hermione play along with it. She looked at Malfoy and could discern nothing more than mild urgency in his silver-grey eyes. Also, he needed a shave. No one had seen fit to entrust him with a razor in the past week and a half. And yet ironically, here he was now, a team member—holding a loaded shotgun between them and crouched so close to her she could smell the lemon soap she'd given him to use.

Ignoring his offered hand, Hermione took hold of his wrist instead, and re-materialised them inside the clinic, three floors up.


	8. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission to Welwyn Hospital starts to unravel.

Thirty-five minutes after the security detail first arrived at Welwyn Hospital, the entire mission team of eight, plus Ron and the captured zombie, were gathered outside the MRI clinic.

Alec Mercer was already configuring the computers that would process the scans. Inside the MRI suite, Mira Khan prepped the area to receive Ron first, followed by the zombie. As planned, Ron was put into medically induced Petrification. Both Ron and the zombie had been transported on stretchers via _Leviosa,_ though markedly greater care had been taken in moving Ron.

Malfoy was leaning against a wall, one leg bent under him, booted foot leaving a black mark upon the powder-blue wall. His fingers idly drummed against the stock of his shotgun. Hermione sincerely hoped he had remembered to put the safety on.

She walked over to inspect Ron, who had blankets tucked around him. He was pale and very still, but discernibly breathing. "Did Padma say how long it's safe to keep him like this?" she whispered Honoria.

"Three hours."

"That should be more than enough time provided you take him home as soon as Dr Mercer is done scanning him," Jason Lam added. The medical student produced a pair of scissors and began cutting the zombie's clothing off. It was a hard, disgusting and sticky task.

"Well, that's the plan," Richards confirmed. He turned to Elizabeth Kent and Hermione. "I'll be in the lobby. As discussed, I want you two ladies positioned at stairwells at either end of this floor. Anything moves, you let me know. Anything tries to come up here, you torch the shit out of it, do you understand? If it makes it out of the stairwell, do not use _Incendio_ or it's going to be like chasing down burning piñatas."

This image required a moment of quiet contemplation to truly appreciate.

"What's a piñata?" Honoria Cloot whispered to Hermione.

Hermione explained.

"Oh," Honoria said, wrinkling her nose. "Well that sounds _nothing_ like a zombie."

At that point, Jason Lam had succeeded in peeling off the zombie's trousers. The sound of this was nearly as bad as the ensuing stench. The creature's bloated body had apparently escaped the confines of its ripped trousers and had swollen around and through the fabric. Removing the fabric caused small sheets of skin to come off.

"Oh, wow. I can smell that from here," Mira Khan informed them, from inside the scanning room.

Mercer left the observation room to speak to Jason. "Don't forget to check for ferromagnetics. He may have piercings that have been covered up by bloated or injured flesh. While you're waiting for Ron to finish, run a Garrett wand over the big guy, here. Just to be doubly sure."

"Look at this haircut," said Jason, "I think he goes to the same barber as Richards. If he's military. I don't think piercings will be a problem."

Hermione was frowning down at the zombie's bloated, suppurating lower torso. "Is that going to be an issue when he's scanned? Apart from making the chamber really sticky?"

Mercer slipped on his glasses and had a closer look. "Nope. His head is perfectly intact. The injuries to his lower half look like high-impact trauma. Judging from the positioning, he was probably hit by a car. See here? His hips are out of alignment."

"I can't even see where his hips _should_ be," Hermione muttered.

"The room's ready!" Mira Khan called out. She was holding her forearm up over her nose to combat the smell. "You can bring Ron in now."

"Alright, people! We all know what we have to do," Richards said. "The sooner we're out of here, the better."

Hermione set off for her end of the corridor. She turned to see the Cowboy speaking to Malfoy. Richards must have temporarily turned off his link to the communication system, seeing as Hermione could not hear what he was saying. In due course, however, Malfoy raised his eyebrows and then looked up at Hermione, bemused. If she were a betting person, she'd put down money on Richards just threatening Malfoy with death and dismemberment if he tried anything sneaky.

Worryingly, Malfoy gave her a small smile and a jaunty salute just before she closed the stairwell door behind her.

* * *

As it turned out, Richards sent Malfoy to the roof.

"Because we need a pair of eyes up there and he doesn't need a wand for that," was all the Cowboy said, when Hermione questioned the wisdom of that decision.

She had _opinions_ regarding this particular idea, but she trusted that Richards knew what he was doing. Over the communication system, Mercer was speaking to Jason Lam, the two men quickly and quietly discussing 'ROIs' and 'functional overlays' and other things that were well beyond her. In the scanning room, Ron was already in position on the table, his head inside a coil and noise-cancelling headphones on his ears to protect them from the loud drumming inside the scanner.

"Report," Richards barked through their headsets.

"It's as quiet as a mouse pissing on cotton, sir," said Kent.

Hermione reported the same, though with less flair for simile. For a moment, she didn't think Malfoy would make a contribution, but then he said, "I think I can see my house from here."

"You mean the one in Wiltshire? That's some good eyes you got there, Malfoy," said Hermione.

She thought she could hear the smile in his reply. "One of _many_ houses, Granger. I have a townhouse here in London, but I do miss the Manor."

"It's still there," Hermione told him, as she peered down the stairwell and once again noted the thankful bounty of nothing.

"An acquired Ministry asset, I presume?" Malfoy asked. "It's a wonder you haven't taken it apart and sold it off, piece by piece."

"Well there was that whole business about the DMLE team that was sent in to catalogue your late father's vast collection of Dark Arts goodies. They went missing for three days and then re-emerged, understandably distraught, in _Jamaica_. After that, the DMLE put the equivalent of Muggle police tape around the place until they could figure out what to do with it."

The communication system relayed his low, soft laughter. "The wards are holding. That is gratifying to hear."

"We're ready," Mercer interrupted. "Commencing scanning now."

Elizabeth Kent spoke at nearly the same time. "Sir, we have some movement on the west end. I can hear it, but I can't see what it is. Sounds like it's coming from the ground floor, though. Are you picking up anything?"

Through her headset Hermione could hear the sound of a door opening and closing in a cavernous space and thought it could have been Richards going to investigate the lobby stairwell.

"Gotcha," said Richards. He then cast a spell Hermione was unfamiliar with. The effects, however, were all that mattered. There was a brief moment of inhuman screeching, a dull thump, and then Richards's voice again. "People, the hospital's deserted, but we may have some free-range visitors wandering the corridors. Keep a sharp lookout and let's dial it down a notch, OK? _No loud noises._ "

The remaining forty minutes passed by without incident and Hermione was relieved to hear Mercer's update. "We're done with Ron! Richards, unless you require anything more of her, Honoria would like to Evaporate back to Grimmauld Place with Ron in tow."

"That's _Disapparate_ , Doc. But yeah, Cloot, you get that boy home."

"Good luck, everyone," said Honoria, and then she and Ron were gone.

"Alright, please bring in the big guy," Mercer requested.

Only, the specimen proved difficult to move. The original levitation spell cast by Wallen and Yoshida was wearing thin, causing the stretcher under the zombie to bow from the immense weight of the creature. In the waiting area outside the scanning suite, Mira re-cast Leviosa to stabilise the load, but then began to have difficulties in pulling away the stretcher. It had adhered to the zombie's exposed flesh. The team listened to several minutes of Mira's laboured breathing before Mercer spoke.

"Jason, I think you'd better give her a hand."

Lam presumably joined the young Mediwitch, but after about ten minutes, he said, "Richards, we're going to need a third person to help Mira move and position the specimen, while I get the scanner ready."

Richards didn't sound entirely happy with this arrangement, but agreed. "Granger, you go. I'll move up to your location."

Hermione opened the heavy stairwell door and then gently shut it behind her. She quickly jogged to the waiting area and assisted Lam and Mira by removing the stretcher first. It took yet more skin off their specimen, but that was of no consequence. Lam then left to go inside the scanning room to ready the table and head coil. Hermione noted that it was extremely difficult maneuvering the large zombie through the narrow corridor leading to the scanning suite

"Jason?" Mercer asked. "What's the hold up?"

"Nearly there!" Lam called out. He opened the double doors for Hermione and Mira, as they slowly levitated the zombie into the room.

A substantial quantity of fluid was leaking from the creature's torso, creating a slimy, slippery mess along the carpeted floor. Mira trod in a puddle and grimaced. "My trainers," she moaned.

"Hold up." Hermione stopped cold. She was frowning down at the zombie.

"What is it?" Mira whispered. But now even she could see the problem. The zombie was moving, seemingly convulsing in mid-levitation. "Oh my God."

Lam was standing by the machine, watching. "I'm coming over."

"Jason, stay where you are!" Hermione ordered. " _Petrificus_!"

It didn't work. Petrification wasn't the problem. The zombie lurched upwards, while still remaining mostly horizontal. It began to spasm wildly, its large body fighting the confines of both the levitation and petrification spells. More fluids ran out of the body, dropping to the floor in a slimy, yellow cascade. It was like turning the tap on a beer keg.

"What's happening in there?" asked Richards.

The zombie's abdomen distended upwards; the skin stretched to the point where it was tented. There was a hissing noise of escaping internal gasses and then something small ripped out of its stomach and hurtled towards the twelve-ton magnet housed at the opposite end of the room. The thing narrowly avoided embedding itself into Jason Lam's startled face.

 _Plink_.

"What the hell…" Jason said, as he approached the item, which was trying desperately to burrow inside the machine.

Mira sagged against Hermione. "That was scary."

"Damn it, Granger! What's going on?" Richards demanded.

"It appears there was something metallic caught inside the specimen. It came out as we entered the scanning room. No one was hurt," Hermione said, with a sigh of relief. She addressed Lam. "Jason, what is it?"

He was peering very closely at the item in question. "I'm not sure. It looks like…some kind of metal loop? Like a broken key ring or something?"

That meant nothing to Hermione, but Richards was suddenly screaming at them.

"Get out of there! Run! Move! _GRENADE_!"

Hermione grabbed Mira and practically threw her back out into the corridor.

Mercer was shouting. Richards was shouting.

The world exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> Quiet as a mouse pissing on cotton is from Heist (2001).


	9. Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disaster strikes the team. Can Draco be trusted not to capitalise from the chaos?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favourite chapter.
> 
> As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.

There was a thump-thump noise, quick and incessant.

It was obscenely loud and Hermione wished it would go away, until she realised it was the sound of her blood pumping; roaring past her ears. Everything else was muffled as if she had pillows strapped to her head. Her head certainly felt that heavy. She couldn't move, couldn't see, but that was because her eyes were shut.

Well, that was easily remedied. Hermione opened them.

The blast had thrown her an impressive distance away from the scanning room, nearly halfway to the stairwell she'd been stationed at minutes earlier. Portions of the ceiling had caved in over the corridor directly outside the MRI suite. Light panels were blacked out and exposed wires hung down, sparking occasionally. There were voices coming through her headset. She could barely make them out, but that was an improvement to the earlier deafness. One trembling hand rose to touch the wetness at her ears. She didn't need to look at her hand to know that it came away stained with blood.

Mira lay just outside the scanning room. Hermione recognised her blue and red trainers.

"Mira," Hermione wheezed. Her streaming eyes were having trouble focusing now. She squinted, blinking away dust, blood and zombie pulp. Her vision focused. She choked back a sob as she observed the meter-long shard of metal that nearly bisected Mira's head. The Mediwitch lay on her back. Her right hand twitched.

She was alive! There was hope. Yes. Mira Khan was alive and there was hope and she was barely twenty-two years of age and she wanted to apply for a Potions apprenticeship after Medimagic graduation. Her hand was moving and therefore she would be fine. They would take her home and fix her.

Hermione realised her wand was missing. Panic belatedly descended and other realisations along with it. She looked down at her legs and saw that about ten centimetres of observable steel bolt was embedded in the side of her left thigh. The fabric of her trousers below both knees had been shredded by shrapnel and she was currently lying in an ever increasing, warm pile of her own blood.

Best laid plans, indeed.

She sat up, whimpering in pain, and then began the task of scrambling around for her wand. It could be anywhere between the doorway to the scanning room and where she lay now. Her sweeping, searching hands were soon liberally coated with her own blood, but sweet relief descended when her fingers came into contact with the familiar, slender length of wood. A short moment was spent contemplating whether or not she should remove the bolt in her leg, but Hermione thought against it. Instead, she rolled onto her stomach, openly sobbing now at the pain, and began crawling towards Mira. Hermione made it about three meters, leaving a wide, bloody smear behind her, before she started to grow dizzy. She put her cheek down against her forearms and concentrated on breathing. The urge to vomit was strong.

Someone was speaking—a voice more familiar than all the others that currently jostled for her attention. The voice was tense, but so very calm in the face of what had just happened. That was plain wrong, Hermione thought. How dare anyone be so calm?

 _Malfoy_.

His clear, business-like voice penetrated the haze caused by shock, likely concussion and blood-loss. Hermione blinked, listening in rapt attention to every single syllable he enunciated as if they were little life buoys in a sea of terror and panic.

"—two maybe three dozen. You have about forty Infected already inside the building. I'm picking off as many as I can from up here. There is another horde congregating at an intersection in the next block. They may have missed the original explosion, but they're definitely taking notice of my gun fire."

"Don't you dare stop shooting!" Richards roared. "Keep at it! Kent, how many you got on your end?"

"Ten, sir! About five before that. They're pressing in!"

"Hold them off for as long as you can! I'm going to get Mercer and Lam. We'll have to be quick. Once I leave my post, they'll swarm up the east end of the corridor. Granger and—"

"I'm here," Hermione said, weakly. And with that, it felt like all her senses were suddenly switched back on. The world came back into focus. There was blasting, screaming, gun fire, smoke.

"Well, hell! Good to hear your voice, girl. I've only been yelling it out for the last twenty minutes. Report!"

"Mira's…" Hermione looked at Mira. _Properly_ looked, without hope clouding her assessment. "Mira's dead. I can't see Lam or Mercer."

"Are you injured?"

Hermione suspected she was slowly bleeding to death.

"Some. I have my wand."

"Good! Can you get to the boys? Mercer's fine. I've told him to stay put inside the observation room. Lam says he's pretty badly hurt. Either you or Lam get Mercer and that data out of here, you got it?"

"Yes," she said, "got it."

Hermione gritted her teeth as she continued to drag herself to the scanning room. In the distance, she could see the tell-tale red aura of _Reducto_ fired in rapid succession. Kent was having a time of it defending her allocated stairwell. If the horde broke through, they would all be dead in minutes.

She reached the doorway, which now resembled a charred, smoking maw. There was nothing left of their zombie specimen, but there was plenty of splatter. And smoke. Hermione sucked in a lungful of air to shout, but then broke out into a coughing fit. She tried again.

"Jason! Jason, can you hear me?"

"Hermione!" Lam called out.

"I can get to him!" Alec Mercer said. The neuroscientist was in the adjacent observation room, the glass wall between both rooms now shattered. Hermione could just make out the top of his head over the partition wall.

"Alec, no! Stay where you are! I'll get Jason and then we'll come to you, alright?"

She could only see Lam if she got to her knees and that was not a posture she could maintain for longer than a moment. He was pinned beneath part of the scanning table. The trouble was that there was a few tons of MRI machine between her and him, and neither of them were in a state to be climbing over obstacles. She would have to try and move it by magic.

Hermione cast _Leviosa_ and wasn't terribly surprised when the spell failed. She could feel the force well up inside of her, but releasing and directing the magic proved impossible. If Hermione was not mistaken, she was now bleeding profusely. The equipment was too heavy and she did not have the strength to fortify the spell. Apparation, perhaps? Hermione hesitated. It was much more costly magic than levitation. The odds of splinching were very high. Perhaps with Lam's assistance…

Lam must have guessed she was considering this. "I tried Disapparating already. I _can't_ … Hermione, please help me. Oh God, I can see my _insides_ …"

"It's OK, Jason! You're going to be fine!" she shouted, trying to sound reassuring. "I'm coming to you, OK? Look, I'm going to try and Apparate over there."

"Granger!" Elizabeth Kent's voice was piercing over Hermione's headset. "They've breached! There are about ten or so, more coming your way. I'm handling what I can, but be ready! They're almost there! Richards, do you copy? Richards!"

The small horde had in fact arrived by the time Kent concluded her warning.

She heard Mercer swear, and then she heard him fire his gun. Richards had obviously provided the neuroscientist with something less cumbersome than a shotgun. And thank goodness for it too, because zombies were currently swarming the observation room.

"Hermione, look out!" Lam yelled, pointing to the doorway. He began firing off spells, some of them whizzing dangerously close to Hermione's head.

There were three zombies, and more still in the corridor. Some of Lam's spells contacted and several heads exploded. Hermione dragged herself behind an overturned table and joined the spell-casting. There was a short reprieve as some of the creatures were attracted by Mercer's much noisier weapon and descended upon the adjacent room. Alarmingly, Mercer picked that moment to stop shooting. Through her headset, she heard him muttering.

"Oh dear," said Hermione. From her vantage point, she could only make out the taller zombies over the partition wall. Hermione raised her shaking arm, took aim and began firing to assist Mercer. She was soon joined by Mercer, who had re-entered the fray after presumably stopping to re-load his gun.

Lam let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Because she couldn't actually see him, Hermione had to abandon her hiding spot behind the table to inch around the collapsed MRI machine. She saw a small child—one of the Infected—tearing into the medical student's injured torso. Lam's right arm and chest were pinned beneath machinery. His legs kicked and thrashed in an ineffectual attempt to throw the small zombie off. It dug into him like a rabbit digging a burrow, pulling out viscera and shoving its blood soaked face deeper into the gaping wound.

"Your wand, Jason! Use it!" Hermione screamed. She fired several times around the MRI machine with a wildly shaking hand, and missed. The small creature spun around and hissed before scrambling across the floor towards her. Hermione quickly cast Harry's chainsaw hex and shut her eyes as the small zombie was sliced in half, diagonally, falling into two pieces on either side of her, pigtails and all.

Lam was now making small, mewling noises. It looked like he was trying to put some of his intestines back together again. He spotted his wand lying amidst his spilled entrails and picked it up. More zombies came through the door, some a few months old—slow and sluggish. Others were newly dead and much quicker.

"Granger, I'm nearly there," Richards spoke into her ear. "You keep Mercer alive, you hear me!"

Hermione propped herself up against the MRI machine and with both hands holding her wand, blasted everything than came through the threshold. She used every suitable spell she knew and a few novel combinations. Some worked better than others. "Alec…" she hissed, hoping Mercer could hear her. She hadn't the strength to shout.

He heard her. "You get the kid out first, you hear me?" Mercer yelled.

"You will do no such thing!" Richards interjected. "Is Lam…viable?"

Hermione didn't need to look. She could hear terrible noises the young man was making. "No."

"Then get to the Doc," Richards ordered.

She glanced at Lam and saw that he now had a firm grip on his wand and had closed his eyes. At that point, a small group of zombies rushed the doorway, causing a minor bottleneck before two slipped through and hurled themselves onto the nearest target—Lam. He tried to blast them off, but he missed at close range.

Hermione began firing at the remaining creatures. One managed to grab her feet and drag her, but she kicked it off with her uninjured leg. "Richards! I think...I think Jason's trying to Disapparate!"

"No! Lam, if you do that, you'll be taking these sons of bitches back home with you. _Don't do it, son_."

"F-f-ffuck you," Lam's said, in a shuddering voice. The zombies attacking him were wholly focused on consuming what was spilling out of him. Hermione now had less faith in the accuracy of her more complex spells, due to her depleting strength. She hit one of them with _Petrificus_ just as the air around Lam began to faintly shimmer—the beginnings of imprecise Disapparation.

"He's trying!" Hermione said. Tears cut through the blood and grime on her face. "Oh, Jason…"

"Granger, you take him out!" Richards roared. "You take him out _now_!" There was no mistaking his meaning.

"Don't you dare!" Mercer yelled, in between gun shots.

"Granger, God damn it. _DO IT NOW_!"

She wasn't going to survive. Hermione knew this. Richards would have to be the one to get to Mercer and take him home, but Hermione would do what she could to make sure the scientist stayed alive, along with everyone else back at Grimmauld Place. She stopped defending the doorway and turned her wand on Jason Lam.

He looked at her as he was being eaten alive, in agony, terrified. Hermione was sobbing. She could not save him, but she could help him.

" _Av…avada Kedavra_ ," she said. Nothing. 

She repeated the same Unforgiveable three more times.

It didn't work. With a cry of defeat, her wildly shaking arm fell.

There was a blur of movement at the doorway and she half-heartedly raised her wand again. But it was no zombie. Draco Malfoy crouched down beside her, grey eyes so very intent and fierce in his pale face.

She was so astounded to see him there that she doubted he was real. Her hand came up, clumsily. Her wand still loosely clutched within it. She brushed her bloody knuckles against his face to check that he wasn't just a figment of her imagination.

Malfoy grasped her wrist, wand and all, and pointed it at Lam.

"Once more, Granger. With feeling."

" _Avada Kedavra_ ," she whispered again and it was like turning on a water faucet to full blast. She could feel the borrowed force of Malfoy's magic flowing through her arm, like an injection of electricity. The magic was all his, her arm and her wand merely the conduit. The sensation was remarkable, culminating in a sharp tingling through the tips of her fingers. She stared at him, blinking in wonder.

The spell hit Jason Lam square in the chest. He died instantly.

Hermione slumped over. She watched what ensued through half-lidded eyes. She saw Malfoy stand, saw his booted feet walk a short distance from her before the thunderous noise of the shotgun began. Four, five…six shots in succession. He reloaded, emptied and reloaded again before crouching down beside her once more. He had taken his gloves off. She felt his warm fingers press against the pulse point at her neck. It was then that Hermione realised everything had gone quite dark.

Malfoy put his arm around her and propped her up. "Mercer, can you hear me? I've shot out all the lights. They seem to move slower in the shadows. I figure in the dark they won't be able to find us if they can't see us."

"I hear you, Luthor. Good move."

"We're coming to you. Be still. No more shooting. At last count, I think there are at least eight of them in that room with you."

Malfoy turned his attention back to Hermione. "I know it hurts, but I need you to be very quiet. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded against his shoulder.

"Good girl. Up we go."

Oh God, it hurt like localised _Cruciatus_. Hermione bit on her fist to keep from crying out as he lifted her.

Malfoy carried her easily, resting his slung shotgun against his hip. He walked with great care towards the observation room. It was impossible to avoid all the broken glass on the floor, but thankfully the ventilation system in the hospital provided a not-insubstantial droning hum. Hermione's eyes had by now adjusted to the darkness and it was possible to see the silhouettes of the creatures. As Malfoy had said, they fared less well in the dark, stumbling over each other and moving with less purpose.

There were indeed eight zombies in the observation room, mere meters from where a stricken Mercer was standing. The trouble was that they were standing _in between_ Mercer, and Malfoy and Hermione.

"The data disc," whispered the neuroscientist, "is in the computer on your right."

Malfoy gingerly walked over to the computer and ejected the disc. The ejecting tray made a minute 'swoosh' sound, which caused every zombie in the room to clamber towards the bank of computers. The creatures' movements provided enough noise to mask Malfoy's footsteps as he quickly backed away to a corner of the room.

However, there was still no clear route to Mercer.

"Granger," Malfoy whispered, "look up. Can you see Mercer?"

"Yes."

"Good. This is going to be two-point Dissapparation. We're going to get over there, grab him and then leave. Do you think you can do that?"

Hermione was fading and she knew it. She could no longer keep her eyes open. The bottom half of Malfoy's clothing was soaked with her blood. So she placed her wand against his chest.

"I'll splinch us. You'll have to do it."

There really was no point worrying about him harming the team now. It was either trust him and possibly die, or don't trust him and probably die. And she also held Mercer's life in the balance. Curiously, just as he had been so tentative in leaving his Azkaban cell, Malfoy didn't immediately do anything besides merely hold her wand.

She tried to goad him into action. "Whatever you do, please, please don't leave Mercer here. He's too valuable."

"I don't know about that," he drawled. "He's a _terrible_ shot."

Hermione smiled. It didn't matter because it was a dark, he couldn't see her face and she was delirious, besides. She remembered what Scrimgeour had said about her being irreplaceable. She didn't agree with him.

"No. We can't replace him."

"And we can replace you?" 

She sighed. Her hands and feet now felt like they were made of ice. There was no feeling there. Hermione nodded, bumping his chin. "Many more like me. _Soldiers_."

"No. None quite like you, Mudblood," Malfoy murmured into her hairline.

"I trust you," she slurred, patting his chest. "Don't make me regret it."

He was warm, so wonderfully warm. She would very much like to go to sleep now and not have to endure the insanity of having just euthanized a colleague, and then playing murder in the dark with eight zombies, a former terrorist and a neuroscientist with a gun.

Hermione's last coherent thought was that if Malfoy got them home in one piece, the least they could do for him was give him a razor so that he could have a decent shave.

His beard was scratchy.


	10. Suspicion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suspicions arise after the Welwyn mission. The Cowboy has a private word with Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.

Hermione opened her eyes.

Above her was the ceiling. Unpainted rendered cement with exposed ventilation ducts and cables, because they weren't intending to win any interior design awards when they erected the subterranean additions to Grimmauld Place. The rhythm of the nearby beeps and the whirs of medical machinery was familiar, as was the sterile antiseptic scent. Hermione flexed her left, and then her right hand, feeling the stiffness of the tape that held a cannula in place on the latter. Her legs were more difficult to move, weighed down by a generous quantity of blankets.

Oh, good. Her legs were still…well, _there_.

The measuring and weighing part of her mind that worked studiously in the background even when all hell was breaking loose had registered the possibility that she might lose her legs from the shrapnel wounds.

Shrapnel wounds because of...of…

The information was there, slowly coalescing.

_Because of the explosion caused by the grenade that had been lodged inside the body of the zombie they had been intending to examine via MRI._

She was back at Grimmauld Place and she was on a hospital bed in one of the basement holding-cells. That much was easy to absorb. The rest was…the rest could wait. She turned her head to the right, where a soft snoring could be heard.

Happiness; bright and frothy burst within her as she observed a sleeping Harry. He was sitting in a chair with his chin dropped down against his chest. For a moment, she just stared, soaking up the blessed sight of him. Harry, in a fresh, but creased shirt and one of the two pairs of worn jeans he owned. The only thing noticeably different about him was that he'd had a shave. He looked painfully young without the beard. Sometimes, Hermione wondered if he had kept it for that precise reason.

"Harry," she said. No voice came out, just a hoarse whisper, but he awakened with a small jump nonetheless.

He dragged his chair closer to her bed, took his glasses off to rub the sleep from his eyes before putting them back on and peering closely at her. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I could do pirouettes of joy," she told him, beaming. She tried to sit up. Harry tried to push her back down. "When did you get back?"

"Lie down," he scolded. "You're meant to be recovering."

"How long have I been out?"

"Almost five days."

"What! That long?"

"Hermione, you nearly _died_. I got back three days ago. Suffice it to say the house was in a state."

The happiness evaporated, sucked out by the vacuum of returning memory. The space it made remained, however, filled now by Mira Khan and Jason Lam Hermione's eyes screwed shut. A lump took up residence in her throat. Harry seemed to understand. He squeezed her fingers, careful not to jar the cannula.

"It wasn't your fault."

"I know."

"Uh-huh," he said, with a half snort. "You knowing it and you _feeling_ it are two different things. I repeat, it wasn't your fault."

"What about Richards and Kent? We lost contact with them. And how is Ron?"

"They're all fine. Kent Disapparated back first. The Cowboy made it to the MRI suite to find you and Mercer, but Malfoy had got you both out by then."

She practically deflated with relief. "So Mercer and Malfoy made it back in one piece?"

"Well, technically two pieces," Harry confirmed. "Which is a relief considering the risks of Disapparating when one third of your party is unconscious, the other a Muggle, and you're using someone else's wand. Speaking of which…"

Harry reached into his wand holster and pulled out her wand which was nestled next to his own. He placed it in her left hand. "I believe this belongs to you."

Hermione stared down at it, and then back up at Harry. She didn't know what to say. Neither did Harry, it seems. He inhaled audibly, before speaking. "Few things manage to surprise me anymore. Malfoy actually doing what he did is very surprising."

"You expected him to run." 

Harry nodded. "Didn't you? Frankly, I've been expecting him to run the moment he got here."

Honestly, she didn't know what she'd expected. In any case, common sense had evidently prevailed. It didn't need to have anything to do with moral epiphanies or atonement or anything so clichéd as that. Perhaps this time Malfoy had simply decided to back the winning horse? The Light held such promise. More so than whatever uncertainties and bad pension plan escape had to offer.

"What happened on Taransay?" Hermione asked Harry. "We sent Owls. All of the missives came back unread."

Harry sat back heavily in his chair. "That is a conversation we need to have with Scrimgeour present. And maybe Mercer, too." He gave her a quelling look when she opened her mouth to protest. "Trust me. They'll help me explain it much better than the way I tried to explain it to them the first time. There's quite a bit to tell. For now, all I really give a damn about is that the Weasleys are safe and you're safe. Oh, and Ginny's here."

That explained the missing beard.

"Ginny! I'm dying to see her!" Hermione made to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but she didn't even get that far. The effort required to simply shift the heavy blankets rendered her dizzy. "Oh," she exclaimed, as dark spots begin to obscure her vision. She felt Harry's hands on her shoulders and then she felt nothing at all.

When Hermione regained consciousness for the second time that day, she opened her eyes to find Padma Patil looking down at her; dark, almond-shaped eyes staring at her reproachfully. Although it seemed she wasn't angry at Hermione, exactly.

"I said _not_ to over-exert her, Harry."

"Sorry," replied Harry. He was hovering at the door, looking doleful.

Hermione licked her lips. Her mouth tasked like cotton wool. A bendy straw gently prodded at the edge of her mouth, and she gratefully sucked up the cool water Padma offered her.

"Thank you," she said, with a sigh. "Don't blame Harry. It was my own fault. I wanted to see Ginny."

"And Ginny wants to see you," Padma assured, "but on account of the fact I recently put a couple of liters of blood into you, I'd prefer that you take it easy for a while."

"That bad, was it?"

Padma raised an eyebrow. Without a word, she walked to a chest of metal drawers at the corner of the room and took out a small, zip-locked plastic bag. Inside, Hermione recognised the wooden talisman that Professor Yoshida had given her to take on the Welwyn mission. The pale, yellow wood was now stained a dirty maroon from what Hermione assumed was her blood. Just off the center of the plaque was a hole roughly the size of a bottle cap. Padma reached into one of the pockets of her lab coat and pulled out a disconcertingly large, steel bolt.

"I took the liberty of cleaning this for you," Padma said. She slipped the bolt into the hole in the middle of the talisman. It slid through easily, all the way to the head. "Thanks to that little sliver of wood, this monstrosity of a bolt managed to only nick your femoral artery, which is why Malfoy was practically dripping with your blood by the time he got you to my operating table. A few centimetres deeper and…" Padma blinked rapidly, her eyes overly bright. She smiled stiffly at Hermione.

Padma _never_ cried. No one, except obviously her late twin, Parvati, could probably have recalled seeing the formidable former Ravenclaw shed so much as a tear. Padma was as stoic as Parvati had been sentimental. Hermione saved her friend's pride by quickly changing the subject.

"Speak of the devil. Where is Malfoy?"

"I've put him to work in the labs. It's hilarious. Well, as much as anything can be right now. He's been _inflagrante delicto_ with our electron microscope ever since I informed him we actually have one. Malfoy's quite willing to share, but house-trained or not, no one else has been game enough to be within three meters of him."

From the doorway, Harry snorted. "No need to wonder why. Constant vigilance, as Moody used to say."

Hermione had to agree. Even in the small moments when she thought she could actually read Malfoy, there was always something _extra_ behind his eyes that made you slightly anxious. He was like a wolf Hermione had once seen in a BBC documentary. The animal's handler had reared it since it'd been a pup. It played, chased, loved to have its belly scratched and even fetched, but God forbid you tried to take away something it had caught, or was eating. There was a wildness that was a part of the animal that no short-term domestication could weed out. Malfoy was like that. He was their captive wolf.

"Off you go, Harry. I'm going to check Hermione's stitches," Padma said, as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves and began prodding at a cut near Hermione's temple. "I'm sure I saw Ginny helping Honoria in the garden."

"You mean our _clay_ garden?" Hermione added. " Scrimgeour said the only thing we're likely to grow there is an urn."

"Mira never gave up on growing some Wolfsbane for Wallen," Padma said, quietly. "So we'll keep trying."

Harry obediently left. Hermione sat in thoughtful silence as Padma finished applying some of Yoshida's home-brewed healing unguent to the cut before applying a fresh butterfly bandage. She pulled aside the blankets to check the wound at Hermione's thigh, which she declared was coming along nicely.

"Granted I'm awfully good at stitching people back up, but I'm afraid that cut on your forehead will scar. Not badly, but you'll see it in certain light."

Hermione tentatively prodded at the cut, and then instantly felt guilty for bothering.

Padma must have caught the look on her face. She tut-tutted. "You're _allowed_ to care, Hermione."

"There are other more pressing things to grieve about than another scar."

Padma shook her head. "It doesn't have to be one thing or the other. You're allowed to acknowledge the general fucked up-ness of the past five days. New scars included."

Hermione was impressed. The other thing Padma never did was swear. "Did we at least get the data we needed?"

At this, Padma brightened. "Indeed, we did. The mission wasn't all for naught. Mercer's been looking at the data since we got back. It's quite something, he says. We've sent it off to the Cowboy's colleagues for their people in the States to have a look at as well."

"And do we know why our specimen had a sodding grenade lodged in his gut?"

"I have no idea," Padma confessed. "Harry's tried asking the Cowboy, but so far Richards is keeping mum."

It was apparent that Agent Richards was the man holding most of the answers Hermione sought. Perhaps there was another, easier way. "I need to see Scrimgeour," Hermione told Padma.

Padma snorted. "Get in line. You'll have to wait until tomorrow, at least. He's currently not permitted to leave his bed."

"What? What's wrong with him? Is he ill?"

"No, being the only one with your blood type, he donated blood for your transfusion. But as he's three times our age, he's not bouncing back quite so quickly. So for the love of Merlin, lie down, rest and make the most of his generous gift by getting better."

It was a most persuasive argument.

* * *

Richards found Harry in the garden. The erstwhile hero of the British wizarding world was smiling beatifically at Ronald Weasley's kid sister—a sassy redhead that Richards had immediately taken a liking to within moments of being introduced to her. 

Ginny Weasley, assisted by mediwitch Honoria Cloot, was attempting to stab a trowel into the compacted ground. The ladies had a few packets of seeds to plant and were impressively optimistic about their prospects.

"Hand me that watering can, would you, Harry?"

Potter did as asked (Richards had no doubt he likely did most things Miss Weasley deigned to ask of him) and the small group of adults observed the water that Ginny poured into the flower trough completely fail to be absorbed by the clay-congested soil.

"Hmm," Ginny said. She was not to be thwarted, though. "Perhaps we could drill a few holes into the ground to let the water drain in?"

Richards had dallied enough. "Potter, walk with me."

Harry Potter would have rather stayed outside in the sunshine with his girlfriend, but he recognised Richards' tone.

The two men wiped their feet at the back step before re-entering the house. Richards led Harry up the stairs, pausing along the way to tip his hat in greeting at their virologist, Kate McAlister, before proceeding to Scrimgeour's office. He shut the door behind Harry.

"What's on your mind?" Harry asked.

"This," said Richards. He walked over to the corner of the room that housed a large cabinet, the one where Malfoy's Remington 870 had come from. He pulled out a key attached to a gold chain around his neck, and opened the cabinet door wide enough for a person to step inside. He proceeded to step inside.

A moment later, a light turned on and a surprised Harry joined him within what appeared to be an ammunitions storage vault. Harry gawked for a minute or two. There was much more than just shotguns. There were an array of semi-automatic pistols and rifles, all manner of body armour, what looked like riot-squad gear, gas masks and canisters of what Harry could only assume was crowd-dispersing gas of some sort.

Richards bent down to slide a large, matte black case from under a shelf. He flipped it open and stood back so Harry could see inside. Harry found himself staring down at rows of hand grenades embedded in custom-fitted foam. There were four rows consisting of five grenades each.

Only…

Harry got down on his haunches to have a closer look.

"The ordnance list I brought with me when I arrived in London indicates that we had twenty separate M67 fragmentation grenades," said the Cowboy.

"One is missing," Harry concluded. He frowned up at Richards. "Why didn't you tell us there was a ruddy arsenal in the house this whole time?"

Richards smiled thinly. "These supplies are here on a need to know and more importantly, a need to _use_ basis."

"But the Minister knows about it?"

"He's the one who insisted I bring it."

Harry's shock registered clearly on his face.

Richards sighed. "I understand that not many of you British wizarding folk like Muggle weapons all that much."

"Understandably," said Harry, with some anger. "Most feel that wands are a more civilised option."

The Cowboy's returning gaze was sharp. "A wand can eviscerate just as well as a hand grenade, but if death and injury is what you want, you can't beat a wand for precision. You throw a grenade, hoping for the best. Or _worst_ , in this case. Maybe it knocks a bunch of people off their feet or maybe it takes someone's head off. Who knows? Maybe it does none of that. But when you cast _Laceratus_ , for example, and you aim it…just so," Richards sliced his hand across Harry's abdomen, just grazing the younger man's shirt, "you actually _mean_ to cut someone open. No dicking about. So don't say guns are more brutish. They just allow more unknown variables."

Still on his haunches, Harry stared down at the grenade case. "You're suggesting someone stole a grenade from here and put it inside the zombie that exploded on Jason, Mira and Hermione? Do you realise how that sounds? It's insane. It's _sabotage_."

Richard's stare was piercing now. "I'm not suggesting it, son. I'm telling you that's what happened."

Harry got to his feet, an expression of pained disbelief on his face. "No. It can't be someone from this house! Who else has access to this room?" He stared pointedly at the chain around Richards' neck. "Besides you."

"Scrimgeour, Agent Kent and myself."

"Fantastic," muttered Harry. "As if the prospect of there being a second schemer and murderer in our midst isn't nauseating enough, I find out our prime suspects are the security personnel who are meant to be protecting us in the first place!"

"I'll widen the pool of suspects for you, if it makes you feel better," Richards said. "On the day of the mission, five people were inside this room at one point— Scrimgeour, Agent Kent, Dr Mercer, Draco Malfoy and me."

Harry's mouth dropped open slightly. "What in Godric Gryffindor's name was Draco Malfoy doing in our ammunitions vault?"

"The consensus among the group was that Malfoy should not be allowed to carry a wand. We gave him a shotgun instead—"

"Because shotguns are _less precise_ at causing death," interrupted Harry, dryly.

"—and suited him up in some protective gear," Richards continued, unfazed. "He was in here with Alec Mercer for all of ten minutes. Supervised by Agent Kent, of course."

"Mercer got a shotgun, too?" Harry asked, looking slightly incredulous.

This seemed to amuse Richards slightly "No, but it wasn't for lack of asking for one. We decided the good doctor was better off with something smaller."

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Does Scrimgeour know about the missing grenade?"

"Yes, but this stays between you and me. The last thing we need now is for word to leak out and suspicion to spread unchecked. We've just lost two people. If morale dips any lower, we'll be in trouble."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I'm just one person, Potter. I need an additional pair of eyes and ears. Especially eyes that aren't busy looking into test tubes. And I need you to keep an eye on Granger."

"Hermione can't possibly have anything to do with this! She nearly died on that mission!"

"She may not have anything to do with the sabotage," the Cowboy said, "but she's going to be working very closely with _Malfoy_ , isn't she?"

"I still think it was a mistake to bring him here," Harry said, his expression dark.

"You could be right," Richards allowed. "Which brings me to this—you grew up with the guy, didn't you? What was he like back then?"

Harry made a sound to convey his contempt. "He was a spoilt bastard and a bigot. Just like his dad."

"Is he really like his old man, though?" Richards asked. "I've looked at his file. He's led a pretty privileged life right up to the point he graduated from Hogwarts."

"So?"

"So, when I see him, I don't see a history of wealth and privilege. I see a pragmatist. I see a man playing a long game. I see patience. I don't like it because it doesn't square with what I read in his file."

It looked like Harry was going to provide further Malfoy-specific insults in response, but then he appeared to properly consider what Richards was asking.

"Let's see….four years on the run followed by capture and then six years in solitary confinement." Harry shrugged. "I think there's your answer."

"Suffering," Richards postulated. He actually stroked his chin.

Harry nodded. "Nothing like an extended bout of suffering to put things into perspective."

"Hmm. That's what I was afraid of. What sort of perspective are we talking about here? What matters to someone who has had it all, and then lost it?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, frowning.

"I'm not sure yet, but there's something missing here. Some aspect of his motivation for helping us that I can't account for. But I'll work it out." Richards led Harry to the door. They paused just inside the threshold. "Oh, and Potter, one more thing? If you ever leave this house without clearing it with either Scrimgeour or me, I'll treat you like the deserter you are. And where I come from, we _shoot_ our deserters. All of us have family out there. None of us give in to the luxury of taking off on personal missions when we feel like it. You don't get special treatment just because you managed to take down your local Dark Lord once upon a time. Do you understand me, son?"

Harry was silent for a moment, his troubled gaze fixed on a spot to the left of the Cowboy's head. "I should have been here to go on that mission to Welwyn…"

"Yeah, you should've. But then maybe you'd be dead like Khan and Lam. For what it's worth, I'm glad you didn't go. We've got a house full of jittery scientists, an ex-con who plays hero when he isn't playing mind games, a Minister for Magic who's currently out of commission…and you."

"And what am I?"

"You, Potter, are a living, breathing reminder of triumph over insurmountable odds. We need that right now."


	11. Executive Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an effort to get more pages of his D.R.A.C.O formula, Hermione takes Draco on a little trip down memory lane, literally and figuratively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.

"Speak to him," Alec Mercer said to Hermione, after a week of analysing the MRI data they had risked their lives to collect.

"Because now we _know_ that he can hear us."

* * *

So she made a point of going to see Ron every day, sometimes twice a day, for at least half an hour on each occasion. Hermione wasn't the only one. Honoria was often there in the late mornings.

Padma was another frequent visitor, no longer performing her routine check-ups and administering medication in silence. She would tell Ron about her day, complain about Mercer messing up the labs and about Scrimgeour being an unexpectedly cantankerous patient. Harry was becoming concerned that everyone was starting to use Ron as a captive Agony Aunt. Once, Hermione even found Felix Wallen sitting beside Ron's bed, reading aloud some Terry Pratchett (bonus points for doing all the different character voices).

As for Hermione, she told Ron of Draco Malfoy's addition to their team and how in a mere fortnight of being introduced to the labs, Malfoy was in the middle of successfully augmenting ReGen. This was their most pressing task at the moment. Without effective, longer-lasting ReGen, even the successful production of D.R.A.C.O would be rendered pointless.

What Hermione _didn't_ tell Ron was that it had taken Malfoy a mere fifty-three hours to create the new test batch of ReGen. Padma had timed him, as a lark. It stopped being amusing after the first twelve hours when Malfoy declined to retire for the night and only left his designated corner of the lab to eat or to attend to calls of nature. By the end of the second day, Padma was concerned he would collapse from exhaustion and would require medical attention that no one in the house could spare him at this point in time.

Malfoy ignored her.

On the third day, Kate McAlister attempted to intervene, complaining that he was monopolising their valuable equipment. He spoke not a word to her, but merely gestured at the computer monitor on which he was analysing a microscopic image display of their reconstructed regeneration serum. Moments later, a wide-eyed McAlister had marched up to Hermione and Padma and said that they needed to: "Leave the man alone to do his work!"

The test batch was synthesised not too long after that, and it was Hermione who had administered it to Ron. There had been no time for testing, as Ron's initial dose of ReGen was on its last legs. His improving condition was the current happy outcome. Yet more work was needed on the serum, but it was no longer a matter of _if_ they were able to perfect it, but _when_.

There was much more to tell Ron.

Hermione explained how Harry and Ginny, with Neville Longbottom's off-site assistance, had taken over management of Taransay Island and the other UK refuges in order to give Scrimgeour additional time to recover from his anemia. In contrast (and to her enormous guilt), Hermione was almost back to her usual fitness, save for a limp that would take a little longer to disappear. There were lots of other things to feel guilty about if one chose to wallow in that particular mire.

Seventeen Muggles and three wizarding citizens had died in the attack on Taransay Island.

Harry didn't want to talk about it, so Ginny spoke for him. She told them of the pyres they had lit to burn the dead, of the smell that lingered for days, followed by a deep, pervading silence. For a while, even the children—previously resilient in the way that innocence and blissfully ignorance allowed—had forgotten how to smile or laugh. 

"This is why your scan data was so timely," Hermione told Ron, as she sat cross-legged in a chair beside his bed. It was very late. She was wearing faded, plaid flannel pajamas, bedroom slippers and one of Aisha Malik's shawls around her shoulders. It was warmer upstairs, but the abundance of concrete in the basement tended to trap the cold.

"We've discovered that the Infection affects magical people differently. Analysis of blood alone could never tell us this. We had to look inside. Inside _your_ head," Hermione explained to Ron, touching two fingers to his temple. "It appears that witches and wizards don't become zombies in the traditional sense of the word. Mercer speculates that they're able to retain more cognitive functions. They can reason, to a certain extent. Which basically means they can remember, plot, plan." Hermione drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them. "Cooperate."

It was a major discovery. And in hindsight, explained the apparent unpredictability of certain encounters with the Infected, not to mention Hermione's recent observations of the comings and goings of the zombie in the red hoodie. The finding had been relayed to the other Infected countries and was received with great scepticism at first, followed by a new wave of distrust and blame-mongering directed at magical folk.

No one was overly surprised by this.

When there was nothing else to be said, when she had smoothed down bed coverings that Honoria Cloot had already meticulously seen to, and when she had given Ron's hand a quick, final squeeze, Hermione bid him goodnight and shut the cell door behind her. It was the start of a full moon again, which meant that their resident werewolf occupied the second cell.

This time, Dr Felix Wallen was awake. It was impossible not to be affected by the sight of two-hundred kilos of bona fide monster, even if the eyes that watched her still recognisably belonged to their mild-mannered microbiologist. His gaze was blue and baleful as she stopped to say hello. He quit his bipedal pacing, dropped to four legs and retreated backwards into the shadows of his cell, until all she could see was a silhouette that was the stuff of childhood nightmares. There seemed to be a lot of that going around.

Hermione took the hint and continued towards the stairs. She headed for the labs.

* * *

A light was still on.

According to Harry, who hovered over the labs in the daytime like an over-protective mother hen, Malfoy had finally managed some sleep (four hours), a shower and a shave, and then had picked up right where he left off. Harry had impressive stamina, but not even Harry was capable of remaining awake for days on end. He'd been relieved of the late-night 'Malfoy-sitting' shift by the Debutante.

Agent Elizabeth Kent was at Padma's desk, her long legs propped up on the work surface. She sat in a chair, swiveling slightly from side to side. Across the room was Malfoy, working with his back to Kent.

"You should be asleep. You're rostered to manage the next lab shift in six hours," said the Debutante, without preamble. Kent managed to avoid referring to Hermione by her name. Hermione couldn't tell if it was a concerted effort or just part of the Agent's abrasive communication style.

"I know when I'm rostered. I made the roster," Hermione replied. "Right now, I'd like a word with our houseguest."

It was some progress, Hermione supposed, that they had stopped referring to Malfoy as 'The Subject' following his assistance on the Welwyn Hospital mission. 'Houseguest' was the new euphemism of choice. Also, Kent really should not have her feet up on Padma's desk like that, where there was equipment and notes, all meticulously organised.

Kent must have caught Hermione's look of disapproval, because she removed her feet. "Be my guest, although I think you'll find he's about as talkative as furniture."

"Clearly you've never encountered Hogwarts' furniture," Hermione muttered. "And thank you, I'll take it from here."

The Debutante narrowed her eyes. She may have also given Hermione's rustic pajamas the once-over. "You want me to wait outside." It was a statement.

Hermione's answering smile was tight. "Please."

The space of a few breaths passed. Kent shrugged. "Fine. Yell if you need me."

"Thank you, I'm sure that won't be necessary."

Kent left, but she didn't go far. Hermione could see her standing just outside the lab's frosted glass double-doors, and it galled Hermione to admit that she was slightly glad for her presence. She'd seen Kent at work and was aware that Richards himself had trained her. As much as Hermione did not like the woman, Grimmauld Place needed both Agents. 

Hermione walked over to Malfoy's designated work station. It was—Hermione noted with some amusement—the antithesis of Alec Mercer's workstation, which was jam-packed full of junk food wrappers and empty cans of soft drink. The state of it drove Padma up the wall.

Malfoy's blatant eschewing of the standard white lab coat was another thing that annoyed Padma. Her reminders regarding of contamination, cleanliness and the reassuring comforts of uniformity fell on deaf ears. Malfoy was not there to make anyone comfortable. He did what he wanted, within the narrow parameters they had set for him. That evening, he was dressed in the same black, military BDU trousers and one of Harry's shirts, a slate grey, cotton, button-down affair that was more formal than Harry desired or required.

He did not acknowledge her presence, so Hermione cleared her throat and said his name.

Upon hearing her voice, he looked up from his sitting position, looking at her but not _seeing_ her. His hair was noticeably longer now. He was all dark blond stubble, shadows, angles and pallor. His face bore the mark of intense, all-consuming concentration. Hermione noted the slight frustration and a thrall that was its most acute when the solution to a conundrum was just within reach…should one choose to add yet another metaphorical piece of _Jenga_ to a swaying tower of theory and questions.

Malfoy's mind was very much elsewhere.

And ironically, even as Hermione recognised her capacity to be exactly like this at times, in that moment, she did not know him. There was no history between her and this particular, here-and-now version of Draco Malfoy; this man who had managed to eke out Muggle medical research expertise while on the run from the British wizarding authorities. And to her growing concern, Hermione realised that applying any absence of history to Malfoy meant that while his motivations were sill suspect, Malfoy himself was not inherently detestable or loathsome or evil. Add to this his surprising actions at Welwyn, and he was unfamiliar to her.

Hermione Granger did not fancy being unfamiliar with concepts or things that intrigued her.

This was her innate nature. If she deemed it worth knowing, then by golly, she would set out to know it. She had briefly pondered telling Harry about these unsettling thoughts, but simply imagining the look of horror on his face was enough to dissuade her. Harry would not understand about curiosities that burned a hole through your mind. And the further irony was that Malfoy would probably understand. Hermione recalled what the Cowboy had said to her just before Welwyn.

_"Different is interesting. He likes interesting."_

In the first few days when a still-healing Hermione had hobbled into the lab to take her position at her desk, her contact with Malfoy had been minimal. Nevertheless, she had felt his gaze on her as she limped around on crutches, felt it settle on her leg or at the cut on her forehead, taking stock of the injuries that had (according to Padma's account) soaked him in Hermione's blood, right to the skin. Apart from a seriously belated team debriefing by Richards about the disturbing theories as to why there had been a grenade buried inside their zombie specimen, neither Hermione nor Malfoy had once mentioned what had occurred at the hospital. Team sabotage was difficult enough to contemplate without having to consider it with Draco Malfoy who might have been the culprit. To what end, though? 

Malfoy was speaking to her now. "What?" he had said, distractedly.

It was a response born purely of impatience, nothing more. He wasn't using his Mudblood-baiting voice. He could have been responding to Kate McAlister or Alec Mercer.

"How much longer before you're done with this?" Hermione asked. 

He massaged the bridge of his nose as he responded. "About a day or two. I'm not as productive as I was at the start of the week."

Yes, well. Exhaustion tended to do that. "You're going to drop if you don't take a break," she told him. They needed him working at a constant, manageable pace. There was nothing manageable about burning out at the end of every week.

And it was then that he folded away the thoughts that preoccupied his mind. She could see it, could see the owlish, neutral stare gradually replaced with the narrow-eyed, canny look that was the Malfoy she had more experience with—the one that called her 'Mudblood' and smiled his game show host smile.

He looked at her until the silence became uncomfortable. Well, _more_ uncomfortable than everything already tended to be around him. And seriously, would everyone please stop eye-balling her god damned pyjamas? They were in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, not London Fashion Week.

"What?" she said, in a tone much sharper than the one he'd used on her.

A ghost of a smile flittered across his face. "You're right. The current batch of serum seems to be working for now. Weasley will keep for a few days longer." He glanced across the room at the spot where Kent had been sitting. "The Debutante's on a break?"

"I asked her to wait outside."

"Why?"

Hermione pulled out a chair and straddled it. Her injured, upper thigh twinged. "Because like last time, I think you're liable to bargain with me without an audience around."

The corner of his mouth lifted. He turned back to his workstation for a moment, saved the work that was currently on screen, before returning his attention to Hermione. "And pray tell what are we to bargain over?"

"I want those missing pages from your notes, and as we've already discussed, you will receive an official pardon once you hand over the lot."

"I believe the deal was, and I quote, _if you help us, the Ministry will rescind your life sentence_."

"Yes."

"There is a chance that D.R.A.C.O will not work. What then, Mudblood? Do I still receive my pardon?"

"Of course. If you honestly helped and it didn't work—"

"Honestly helped?" he scoffed. "And who decides how 'honest' my assistance has been, hmm?"

"We all do! Me, the team, Scrimgeour..."

"And I believe you. However, you do not hold the majority vote here, do you?"

That was it then, she realised, and could have kicked herself for not understanding Malfoy's concerns sooner. He did not trust Scrimgeour's tacit approval of the pardon. But the Minister had already given his consent, albeit grudgingly.

Ah, but he'd been forced into it, hadn't he? Harry and Hermione had not sought prior approval before bringing Malfoy into their operation. It had been worth it, clearly, but Scrimgeour's mercy was apparently not perceived by Malfoy to be a sure thing. Hermione cared for Rufus. She knew Harry felt the same way. But like the Cowboy, the Minister for Magic did have his secrets and hidden reservoirs of unflinching ruthlessness. You had to, to make the kinds of decisions he did.

Malfoy seemed to read her mind.

"Richards would beat the formula out of me if given the chance. I suspect he's offered that to you as a suggestion. And I also suspect you've declined."

Hermione was silent.

"Not so much on _my_ behalf, I'm sure." He was watching her very carefully, almost scrying her face. "Rather, I think you couldn't stomach the thought of being responsible for anyone's torture."

"You really don't believe you'll be pardoned outright?" she asked, returning to their original topic.

"No, Mudblood. Not for what I've done."

"I _know_ what you've done!"

He stared at her, suddenly looking sceptical. "You've accessed my file, haven't you?"

"Yes."

His eyes narrowed. "Hmm."

She was growing impatient now. "Go on."

"With Richards' help, you may be successful in bleeding the original formula out of me, but you'll be hard pressed using that same 'technique' to get me to continue working on it. Do you see now?"

She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the vertigo of epiphany. She did see, and she also saw how painfully naïve she'd been about the motivations of the people at the center of this game. "It's going to be a staged release of your formula. And you're going to make sure it works first. That's why you're nearly killing yourself perfecting ReGen now, because D.R.A.C.O won't take without it, and you don't completely trust that Scrimgeour will really pardon you for your past crimes," she surmised.

He didn't reply; didn't need to. He took a blank piece of paper and a pen from the table and then spent a minute writing on it. When he was done, he handed it to Hermione. Her eyes quickly scanned his neat, slanted handwriting. Of course, she would need Kate McAlister to confirm without a doubt what was written on the paper, but Hermione knew enough to understand what it contained. It was another missing page of the D.R.A.C.O formula, following on from the first page he had already given them in exchange for his first bath.

Hermione blinked at him. "Thank you."

"I don't want your thanks," he said. "This is a bargain, not a token of my goodwill. It will be the start of many more bargains to come. You get that page and another, tonight. After I get what _I_ want."

"And what do you want?"

Oh dear. He appeared to be thinking.

* * *

Elizabeth Kent looked at her as of she'd lost her mind. Hermione couldn't blame her.

"No! Absolutely not! You're nuts to even consider it! You do realise there's nothing to stop him from killing you, severing the tether and escaping?"

Hermione had expected this. She pulled up her sleeve. "You're right. I can't possibly take him for this little jaunt if I'm the one he's tethered to. So here—" She unknotted the golden skein that appeared at her own wrist and took hold of Kent's.

Malfoy leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching this exchange with interest.

"What are you doing?" Kent demanded.

"If he pushes me off a cliff or something, the tether will remain unbroken because _you_ can still track him, yes?"

What could Kent say? She wouldn't say no because the alternative would be to allow their precious prisoner the means of permanent escape. Malfoy could kill Hermione and abscond, but it would only be temporary so long as the tether was intact. They would always find him, no matter where he went. And when they did, it was a surety that whatever tentative mercy Scrimgeour had once extended would be ancient history.

Kent scowled as Hermione tied the tether off. "This is a mistake," she insisted. "You're being reckless with what doesn't belong to you."

"The formula doesn't bloody belong to us. I'm working on changing that. If anyone else has any better ideas that won't do more harm than good, be sure to let me know." Hermione shoved the single page Malfoy had given her, into Kent's hands. "Give that to Kate McAlister in the morning. She already has the first page. There'll be another upon my return."

"I'm going to have to report this, you realise."

"I expect you to, Agent Kent," Hermione replied, without any malice. 

She had already taken Malfoy by the elbow and was leading him up the stairs, towards the kitchen. They would have to quickly grab whatever they could carry, before Kent ran tattling to Scrimgeour or Richards. She selected two apples—both green, some hard cheese, sliced bread and two bottles of ginger ale. She threw the lot into a canvas bag hanging in the pantry and then stood in the middle of the kitchen.

"Ready?"

She held out her hand to Malfoy, expecting him to offer her his wrist, as was all side-along Apparation required. He stared at her with a bemused expression, and it might have been her imagination, but she thought he looked just a tad impressed.

And tall, Merlin, he _towered_ over her. Shoving her off a cliff, should he choose to do so, would present no problems to him whatsoever.

He didn't offer his wrist, but took her hand instead; his grip strong, warm and dry. That threw her off a little, but not enough to distract her from Apparating them right into the middle of Hogwarts' Quidditch pitch. She honestly wished she was dressed in something other than her ratty old pajamas and bedroom slippers.


	12. The Necessary Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An impromptu trip to Hogwarts results in a useful Herbology find. Hermione scores her first point against Malfoy.

Malfoy said he wanted a bit of time on a broom. Hermione had deemed that do-able.

He'd then added that he wanted a bit of time on a broom _at Hogwarts' Quidditch pitch_. She'd mulled it over for a short while before decided that yes, that too was do-able provided she got Agent Kent to take over as Malfoy's tether-mate for the duration of the trip. Even though Malfoy was speaking to her in full sentences, with his inbuilt cryptic-o-matic turned off, and he hadn't tried to strangle her once in the last three weeks, he was still a convicted killer.

Hermione was not a fool. She knew that her life was at risk every time she was alone with him. Ah, but the risk was small enough that it did not outweigh the benefits if he continued to hand over additional pages of D.R.A.C.O. At this rate, this would have it all in a matter of a days.

Malfoy was no fool, either. His endgame made a lot of sense, if you happened to be Draco Malfoy. It wasn't like anyone was expecting him to transform into Mother Teresa overnight. He would give only so long as they gave back, and by all accounts, what he was asking of them was relatively minor. The big ask was trust, however. Hermione did not trust him, but she trusted her instincts and those instincts were telling her that murder and mayhem was not on the cards currently.

They Apparated into the middle of a humid Scottish summer. The pitch was predictably deserted. Months of neglect meant that the grass reached Hermione's knees. She noticed that Malfoy was no longer at her side. He was cutting through the green, heading purposefully towards the edge of the pitch. Hermione rubbed her upper arms to rid herself of goosebumps. Despite the school's legendary external wards now rendered defunct, it seemed immensely wrong to Apparate so casually onto Hogwarts grounds. The castle itself was a different matter, of course. The wards around the stones were ancient and unlike the outside, did not require manual maintenance. They were a permanent feature and as such, it was still impossible to Apparate directly inside the castle.

It was so very silent on the pitch. The air was unmoving. There were no night bird calls and no droning insects venturing from the muddy banks of the lake. It felt like they were inside some kind of hermetically sealed history lesson. The house flags and banners that adorned the Quidditch stands lay dark and limp. A full moon provided light, though just barely. Hermione's memory of Hogwarts was undoubtedly embellished. She recalled the grass being so vibrant that it hurt to stare at it in the full sun, while the Slytherin green was a couple of shades darker. She remembered the scarlet and deep gold of the Gryffindor colours on flags that flapped in the breeze so energetically that they made a noise. The pitch was never meant to be seen like this, bleached of colour as it was. Everything was in monochrome.

Malfoy's borrowed combat boots crunched over the sand and gravel that bordered the pitch. "Where are you going?" Hermione asked. She didn't have to shout. The silence meant her voice carried without any effort.

He replied without turning around. "To find a ride."

* * *

Hermione had no idea that the Slytherin team maintained their own separate set of practice brooms housed in a locker in the school's broom shed. The most recent team's brooms were still there. She was unsurprised. While every other Quidditch player made do with a geriatric school broom in the event their own stick was in the shop, Slytherin House made up its own rules. That had been part of Hogwarts' dubious charms—the small, mean inconsistencies. Looking at it through less idealistic eyes, Hermione wondered why some of the other Houses never kicked up more of a fuss about these injustices. Hufflepuff, for instance. House Hufflepuff often found itself at the dodgy end of last minute points or rule changes, often to the benefit of Gryffindor or Slytherin. They seldom complained, and you began to understand that that, too, was part of the system of assigned character. And if one subscribed to the notion that in many cases free will was actually an illusion, then it became easier to see why Malfoy had become who he was, and not…and not any of the myriad _other_ things he could have been.

Like a gifted research scientist, for example.

Malfoy's departure from the UK had certainly been 'off-script'. Perhaps he'd glimpsed previously impossible options? Maybe that accounted for why he had seemingly rid himself of the petulance and resentment of his youth? The malice that made him Harry's Hogwarts nemesis was still there, though. Perhaps that would always be part of him?

Hermione climbed to the top of the Ravenclaw stands, because they were the nearest. It was a long and sweaty climb to the top, and she was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration by the time she settled into the front row of benches. Padma had recommended exercising her injured leg to prevent muscle atrophy, and so far, there hadn't been many opportunities for a workout at Grimmauld Place. The short curls at her hairline stuck to her damp skin. Hermione pushed her hair back, gathering the thick mass into a tighter ponytail.

She took one of the bottles of ginger ale from the canvas bag and unscrewed it. The ale was perfect for the weather—dry, crisp and still very cold. She ate her apple as she watched Malfoy fly, for there was nothing else to do and the sight of the empty castle in the immediate background made her feel all sorts of melancholy.

It was truly odd to note that she remembered his flying style, so to speak. This knowledge had been borne from the many Slytherin versus Gryffindor matches he had played in, whereby it would only be just a matter of time (and opportunity) before he executed a foul against a member of the Gryffindor side—usually Harry. After years of watching for that with a keen eye, it was no wonder she remembered that Malfoy flew like he was riding his favourite horse. He didn't crouch over the broom, like Harry, who kept his ankles tucked up tight like a jockey on a tall racehorse. Nor did he observably 'hang' from it, which was Ron's particular, dangling style.

No. Malfoy sat with his back straight; heels fixed at a forty-five degree angle, as if they were placed in invisible stirrups. His left hand held the broom neck, directing the stick with motions that were largely indiscernible, while his other hand rested on his thigh. When Harry came about, he grasped the broom with both hands and the tip of the broom would dip south and then level up again. When Malfoy did this, he did it one-handed, pulling the tip of the broom nearly up to his nose, such that he and the broom were nearly vertical in the air.

Harry had pointed out once or twice that it was a difficult maneuver to master at full speed, but if you could manage it without throwing yourself off your broom, it meant you made less of a target as you turned. Most collisions and Bludger Kisses (as Ron euphemistically called them) happened when players turned their brooms around.

After about twenty minutes in the air, Malfoy dismounted. He stepped onto the levelled top of the safety barrier, before jumping down to join her at the benches. His legs were long enough that he was able to brace his feet against the barrier. There was colour in his cheeks. Wordlessly, she passed across the canvas bag. He took it, pulled out the ginger ale and drained half the bottle in one long, continuous swallow. They sat—in not quite companionable silence—watching the few sparse clouds pass across the moon. Hermione was so tense that it was nearly anticlimactic when he eventually did speak to her.

"How did it start?"

She knew what he was talking about, of course. "No one knows for sure. But they traced the source of the Infection to London. Patient zero, whoever they were, lived and died here."

He leaned back, resting his elbows on the raised, second row of benches behind him. "When he or she made it to a hospital, the treating doctors would have diagnosed it as encephalitis. Probably thought it was meningitis."

Hermione sighed. "Yes."

"And then when more cases presented, they would have been motivated enough to conduct PCR on brain samples post mortem," he speculated.

"PCR?"

"Polymerase chain reaction," he explained. "It's a technique used to detect the presence of infectious diseases."

She had to ask. "What on earth prompted your interest in virology?"

He angled himself slightly to the right, such that he was now facing her. It was now too dark to make out the expression on his face. "I'm not just interested in virology."

"Then...?"

"Then why did I spend several character-building years in Russia learning about it?"

Hermione nodded.

Malfoy took a swig from his ginger ale, watching her over the base of the bottle. "I told you."

She located the memory in question, from the day they had released him from Azkaban.

_I spotted a lucrative, untapped market._

"For the money," she concluded. "For the challenge, too."

He held the bottle up at her in mocking congratulations at her deduction. She waited for the inevitable elaboration. It wasn't a long wait.

"Muggles fear mortality in ways we do not."

She made a derisive sound. "Magical folk are hardly immortal."

"The average life expectancy of a Western European wizard is a hundred and twenty. In Japan, it's two-hundred and five. How old does Professor Yoshida look to you?"

"I'd say about eighty-five?"

He smiled, took a sip and then licked his lips. They glistened briefly in the low light. "Try two-hundred. He's been brewing potions since my great-grandfather was in swaddling clothes. Compare that kind of longevity to the average Muggle life expectancy and to Muggles. It's no trifling matter."

"What about Voldemort? Did he approve of your little side-projects?"

At mention of Voldemort, the air between them cooled significantly. Malfoy's smile was still there, but now it was only for show. "Let's just say that what the Dark Lord did not know, ought not to have bothered the Dark Lord."

"Ah, but he did find out, and it did bother him. He betrayed you to the authorities before Harry killed him. That's how you were eventually caught."

"I took a risk. It seemed worth it at the time. I expect you understand all about risks worth the price of entry, seeing as you're spending the small hours of the morning with someone who could hurt you in a hundred different ways before the sun rises."

She felt a stab of anxiety in her belly, but tried for nonplussed. "If I thought you were going to kill me, I wouldn't be here."

"But killing is not hurting, is it?"

"I have a wand."

"And a good thing too. We're going to need it."

She tensed when he took the bag, located the other green apple and began to demolish it in quick bites. He never did anything tentatively; they were mostly concerted, precise actions.

"So what's your story, then?" he asked, gesturing at her with his apple. "Why are you here?"

"Here with you?"

He used a smile she had never seen before. This one was sleet-melting. "No, _kiska_. I know why you're here with me. What I don't know is why you're helping your team."

"I'm helping them because they need help. And was that Russian? How fluent are you? We may need to trade supplies with a convoy soon."

"You know what I think? I think you're helping this team because of your misguided need to assist Potter. I don't think you'd even know what it's like to have a project all your own," he said. "And my Russian happens to be as fluent as my French."

She knew he was purposely goading her about being Harry's perpetual sidekick. It was an old insult. "Actually, ReGen is my own undertaking. I was working on it before the outbreak, which is why it was available to use."

It was apparent Malfoy had not been aware of this fact, and now looked genuinely impressed. "ReGen is a bloody work of art, I hope you realise that?"

She shrugged.

Malfoy shook his head. "Honestly, Granger. I don't know if it's a lack of imagination that's your problem, but there are about a dozen commercial applications for something like ReGen."

"Right now, the only application I'm interested in is whether it can combine successfully with D.R.A.C.O."

He tossed his apple core over the railing and left the Quidditch broom leaning against the safety barrier. "How amusing to think that our respective inventions may actually have the capacity to save the world. On that note, no time to dawdle."

"Where are we going?" she asked, reaching for the bag.

"The library. It was good to be back on a broom after these many years, but we're here for business, not pleasure."

* * *

The darkness inside Hogwarts Castle was the sort that had weight to it. It settled around Hermione and around the two square meters of light created by her _Lumos_.

She stood in the middle of this circle of light, using her memory of the castle to find her way around. The perimeter of the light orb didn't taper off into the darkness, it was _sucked_ into it. So despite being inside Hogwarts and traversing its corridors and staircases, all Hermione got to see of her beloved, old school was minute portions of illuminated space.

Malfoy hovered at the orb's perimeter, sometimes walking out ahead into the thick blackness. He'd stop for her to catch up and she nearly ended up walking into him once or twice.

"This was perhaps not the best idea you've had," she commented.

"I've had far worse. I'm pretty sure seventh year was more or less twelve months of Bad Idea."

Hermione paused for a moment to get her bearings. They had to be at the third floor corridor by now. She couldn't see him, but she could hear his footsteps if she kept the noise of her own footfalls to a minimum. "We've overshot the stairs to the library," she whispered.

He stopped walking. There was a brief pause, followed by, "I think you're right. We should backtrack."

A moment later, he entered the confines of her _Lumos_. When he spoke, his breath stirred the hair at her forehead. She could smell green apples. His light hair and eyes rendered him colourless and ghostly in the golden glare of the spell.

Hermione took a step backwards to put some distance between them. There was something on the ground, however. Her left heel caught against it and she would have fallen over if Malfoy hadn't caught her about the waist. He swung her back up, and as her wand arm dipped low, it revealed the desiccated remains that had tripped her. The shock was pronounced enough that she momentarily forgot it was Malfoy's shirt and arm she was clutching.

It wasn't so much what it was, but _whom_ it was.

"Oh my God. Is that…is it…?"

Malfoy extricated himself from her white-knuckled grip and dropped to his haunches for a better look.

"Light," he requested.

She aimed her wand at the ground.

It was Hogwarts' caretaker, Argus Filch. Or what was left of him. Of Mrs Norris, there was no sign. With any luck, she'd run off into the safety of the forest. Hermione had seen her fair share of half-eaten remains, but this was different. She joined Malfoy for a close-up examination of the corpse.

"Look at this," she whispered, pointing to the spot where the top of Filch's head ought to have been. His brain was gone, scooped out. "That's a clean cut. This was no feeding frenzy. His head's been cut open like the top of a boiled egg."

Malfoy grabbed her wrist and guided the wandlight lower down over the corpse's torso. His hold was light, but Hermione's entire body recoiled. If he noticed, he was too preoccupied to comment. He released her hand and then turned the stiff corpse onto its side.

"Keep the light right there."

"What are you doing?"

"Having a good, old-fashioned rummage…"

He frowned in concentration as he palpated the corpse's abdomen. It looked intact, which was odd as viscera was usually a zombie crowd-pleaser, but she soon reassessed this assumption when she watched his hand disappear inside. There was definitely a wound.

"You really should be using gloves for that."

"It's alright. He's mostly dry. And—ah yes, it appears he's also missing his liver." Malfoy took his hand out and proceeded to wipe it on the remains of Filch's clothing.

"Hold out your hands," Hermione instructed.

Malfoy did as asked and Hermione took the liberty of casting a sanitising charm over his hands. 

"Hmm," said Hermione. "So they took his liver and his brain. But left everything else?"

"They _ate_ his liver and brain," Malfoy emphasised.

Hermione was perplexed for only a minute, before she joined Malfoy at his apparent conclusion. "Wizarding zombies must have done this, and they were damn near surgically precise. They picked the bits they fancied best. The brain is standard zombie nosh. But the liver is full of nutrients—iron, potassium, zinc, Vitamins A, D and C, masses of thiamine and riboflavin. Things you won't find in similar quantities anywhere else."

"All the things required for cognitive functioning," Malfoy surmised. "You're saying the human liver is like the smart zombie's salt lick?"

Hermione nodded. "I'll raise this with Mercer. See what he says." Suddenly the darkness that surrounded them was about ten times as ominous. "Um, I'd feel a lot better if we hurried this up."

"I concur."

They proceeded to the library at a much quicker pace.

* * *

Their destination was the Herbology wing of the library, which occupied a sloping alcove on the fourth floor, west of the Restricted Section. Some of the more valuable reference books were missing and several more littered the floor. Hermione suspected the teachers had taken what they could with them when the Hogwarts had been evacuated. The shelves gradually diminished in height as they ventured deeper inside the alcove. Malfoy peered at several titles, eventually pulling out a book. He flipped it open and grimaced at the cloud of dust that billowed forth, visible in the golden light.

"This spot was Neville's favourite place at Hogwarts, second only to the greenhouses," Hermione commented.

"Oh?" Malfoy said, as he rapidly scanned pages. "And where was yours? I imagine it was also the library. I need more light."

Hermione walked towards him, holding her wand just above eye-level. "Mine was the Prefects' Bath. What is it we're looking for, exactly?"

He stopped turning pages, looking down at her with a raised eyebrow. "The bath?"

The darkness concealed her blush. Of course he had to be prurient about it. "An hour of uninterrupted soaking in a fragrant, bubble-filled tub that could fit twelve people would be anyone's idea of relaxing," she said, primly.

"Twelve people, eh? Is that just a random number or based on experimentation?"

She rolled her eyes. "Sod off, Malfoy. You were a prefect. You used the bath too."

He turned his attention back to the book. "Indeed I did. And it's more like eight people."

The pages continued to turn.

"Comfortably, anyway."

She ignored him whilst simultaneously trying to see what was inside the book.

"Maximum of ten, I'd say. It depends on how much splashing you intend on doing."

Hermione groaned. "Trust you to be lascivious at a time like this."

"I'm always lascivious. We've just never really got to know each other before now."

Hermione eyed him warily. He was standing close enough to count eyelashes, as Ginny was known to say. "What's in this book that we need so badly?"

"A list of herbs that if prepared correctly, should boost ReGen's staying power even further. If Longbottom is as good a Herbologist as you say, I'd like to bring him in to consult, as much as it pains me."

"Excellent. Let me see." She dropped the canvas bag and reached for the book, but he held it away from her.

"The book you get for free. My work on ReGen is also yours, gratis."

This time, it was her eyebrow that rose. Her voice was flat, however. "Goodness, your generosity is boundless."

He ignored her sarcasm. "And you may also have another page of the formula."

Two pages in a day? Boundless generosity, indeed. But as always, there would be a price. Hermione watched as he patted down the many pockets of his trousers, before asking if she had a pen on her. She replied that she did not.

"No matter." Malfoy stuck out his left index finger. "Here, cast _Scribbulus_."

She did as he asked, watching as the tip of his finger began to glow. It would bug her for the rest of time if she didn't say it. So she did.

"E.T phone home."

Malfoy paused in the act of raising his hand, his expression quizzical. 

"You can work an electron microscope, but you have no idea about E.T?" 

He proceeded to write in the air—a floating paragraph of chemical equations, runic symbols and a diagram to explain their confluence. Hermione took a step backwards to observe the notes. Even after nearly two decades of life in the Magical world, with all the attendant marvels that she witnessed on a regular basis, there never failed to be something new and oftentimes rather simple, that would momentarily take her breath away.

On this occasion, it was silver writing suspended in a foggy cloud of Lumosgold, bordered by seemingly endless darkness. She touched one of the runes and it wavered slightly in the air. It was beautiful enough to make her eyes shine with reverence, but its utility far surpassed its beauty. She turned on the spot and was dismayed to realise Malfoy was against her back. He looked down at her; at her face and then at the sheen in her eyes, for which she felt foolish.

"How much do you want this?" he asked her, his voice soft and low.

"Very much," she said. "You want something for it, don't you?"

He didn't reply, merely stared at her. She thought he looked faintly disgruntled.

"What do you want?" she prodded. This was the second time she'd asked him the question since he'd joined the team.

"I want you to kiss me."

Hermione was too self-aware to fool herself into thinking that this new request was unexpected or shocking. There would be no morally outraged How Dare Yous, no slaps to the face, because Hermione suspected she and Malfoy had mutual recognition regarding their odd new relationship. As much as she wanted to insist that he was out of his damned mind, that his request was completely inappropriate, she knew it would be a waste of time.

And time was in very short supply.

She looked up at him, straight in the eye. "You really don't care what I think of you, do you? To ask this of me is to invite me to think the very worst of you."

Hermione held her breath as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear. As usual, humidity wreaked havoc on her hair. He observed the progress of his hand, looking everywhere but at her eyes. "I doubt I can do much more to sully my already black reputation."

She caught his hand, pulling it away from her. Her heart was beating double-time. "Then why not try to improve it?"

He shrugged with one shoulder. "A good reputation is too much work to maintain."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're stalling," he said, with a smile in his voice.

Hermione turned away for a moment, her hands balling into fists. Damn him. It was all a game.

"Fine," she snapped, not looking forward to the conniption Harry was going to have when he found out. "A kiss in return for that page."

It was then that she noticed he still held the very large, unwieldy Herbology tome between them. And that detail suddenly opened a door to new insight. Malfoy was nothing if not precise. Bartering for something as ambiguous as 'a kiss' meant that he was effectively relegating the decision regarding the parameters of the kiss _to her_.

What was a kiss, then? A kiss on the cheek? A kiss on the forehead? A kiss on the hand? Technically, they all qualified. He expected her to pick the option that she found least disagreeable. Malfoy waited, watching. And it irked her to see the amusement on his face. He knew she was mulling over her options. This was an exercise designed to discombobulate and to _take_ power.

He expected her to kiss him on the cheek.

Hermione felt a surge of adrenaline. Sod him. Oh, yes. Power would be lost, but Malfoy underestimated her if he thought _she_ would be one to cede it. She didn't need to fake her nervousness as she approached him, it was all too real. He looked on, smug and silent and with the Herbology book still tellingly between them.

Breathing hard, with her arms and her wand held stiffly by her side, Hermione raised herself on her toes and tilted her head to make it look like she was going for a quick peck on the cheek. The bastard was that sure of himself that he assisted by lowering his head slightly to give her better access to the side of his face. Hermione experienced a flash of second, and and then third-thoughts, but the silver glow from the formula hovering behind them spurred her on.

She took a step forward, no longer merely in front of him, but now walking into him. Before he had a chance to register her intentions, she took hold of his face in her free hand, feeling the rough new growth of beard at his jawline, before sealing her mouth over his. The entire length of his body stiffened. She sensed his desire to back away, almost as keenly as her own. But of course he would realise that if he did that, he would be the one to extricate himself first and as a result, lose the game.

Kissing Draco Malfoy was a rather one-sided affair. His lips were tense, his breathing now sharper, his mouth sealed shut. She ran the very tip of her tongue against the seam of his lips and they parted with a soft whisper of inhalation. Kissing on the mouth was one thing, French kissing was quite another. She didn't think the latter was necessary, so she focused instead on gently catching his lower lip between hers, before doing the same to his upper lip. It was a brief, quick foray. Hermione tasted sharp, green apple and mellow ginger ale, idly wondering if she tasted the same to him. She pulled away and the natural adhesion of partially moist lips kept their mouths connected for a moment longer. Her hand now rested on his chest, where she could feel the wild hammering of his heart. There was a victory to be savoured from that alone.

She opened her eyes. Despite the clamminess in her palms and the tingling along her scalp and various other random nerve endings, she could not contain her own smugness when she looked at him.

There, she thought, there's your kiss, you god damned, manipulative bastard.

But then she saw his expression. And she saw that it consisted of more than just the realisation that he'd been out manoeuvred. His pupils were blown wide and his breathing was soft, but ragged. Instinctively Hermione held out her wand to ward him off. It didn't work because she didn't _use_ it.

The book dropped to the floor. He splayed a warm hand around the nape of her neck, two fingers slipping into her hair, just under her ponytail, while his thumb rested beside her cheekbone. His other hand caught her about the waist as he walked her back into the bookshelf. Hermione's mouth opened and he caught her muffled protest in a kiss that made her previous attempt look chaste in comparison. She pushed against his chest, but it was like pushing at a wall. The back of her head met the bookshelf. One of his thighs parted her knees so that he could more effectively pin her against the shelf. She couldn't bring either knee up if she wanted to. He wasn't stupid enough to put his tongue inside her mouth, or else she would have bitten down on it. Instead, he ran his mouth along her jawline, down to her throat, stopping to suck lightly at the frantic pulse that was beating at the side of her neck. Her mind reeled. She was shaking so heart her teeth were chattering. 

"You have your wand, Mudblood," he reminded her, his voice gruff and hot against her neck.

Hermione placed the tip of her wand against his chest, temporarily dulling her _Lumos_.

"Go on, use it. End our little kiss and I'll have that page back, thanks."

"You bastard," she hissed. Her panic had very nearly boiled over, but she would not yet capitulate. "I'm not the one balking here. Finish your manhandling."

He smiled against her neck and then pressed his hips into her. Her breath caught as she felt the hard length of his arousal nestle against her belly.

"No, I don't think I'll finish it here and now. Not while there are still so many more pages for you to acquire..."

Despite his words, her shaking had now progressed to trembling. She was gripping her wand so tightly; it was a miracle the thing didn't snap in half. A dozen spells were poised on the tip of her tongue, but none of them came out. She had no idea how serious he was about his threat to keep the page, but she could not bring herself to play his game any longer.

Hermione loathed how small her voice sounded when she did speak. "Draco, _please stop_."

It was probably the first time she had ever called him by his given name. He immediately stopped, so suddenly that she slumped down along the bookshelf. When she rose to her feet, she saw that he looked utterly furious. It was the strongest display of emotion she'd ever seen from him since he'd joined the team. His anger was confusing.

Malfoy picked up the book and bag, and then let her lead the way back out to the school grounds, beyond the castle's Anti-Apparation barrier. They did not speak to each other. When they Disapparated from the middle of the Quidditch pitch, he did not take her hand.


	13. Conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is a none-too-gentle welcoming committee. Padma has a quiet word with Draco about his intentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.

It was still dark when Hermione and Malfoy Apparated into Grimmauld Place's back garden. Hermione belatedly realised they were standing in a newly-planted row of Wolfsbane. Ginny and Honoria would not be pleased. Further to that, her beloved tartan bedroom slippers probably needed to be thrown away now. They were soiled and soggy after her trek across a damp Quidditch pitch, through Hogwarts' dusty, deserted corridors and over deceased school caretakers.

This was the least of her troubles, however.

She released Malfoy's wrist just in time to see Harry come barreling at them from the back door, his mouth open in a snarl. He caught Malfoy around his midsection and both men landed heavily on the ground, scattering the herbology book.

There was always a moment of disorientation following Apparation, no matter the distance. Hermione frantically tried to speed up her re-orientation, so she could better grasp just what the hell was happening. She shook off the customary woozy feeling and stepped out of the flower trough just as Harry began to throw punches.

"Harry!" She ran forward to pull the back of his old t-shirt, which promptly ripped, tearing at the neck hole. It was a stark reminder of how much stronger he was compared to her. There had been a time, many moons ago in first and second year, when this had not been the case. Hermione honestly could not recall the last time she'd grappled with Harry, though it had probably also been in an effort to restrain him. She grabbed his right arm. He shook her off, along with the remains of his ruined shirt.

"Damn it, Harry! Have you gone mad?"

He didn't look at her. He didn't even seem to register that she was there. This, too, was an annoyingly familiar aspect of male rage—the red-hazed, tunnel vision. It occurred to Hermione that Malfoy was not fighting back. He blocked the fists that were aimed at his head, but seemed to be doing no more than standing his ground. Harry lunged for Malfoy's throat. Malfoy slapped his hand away. The sound was loud enough to make her wince.

"No soft words and wooing? Straight to the main course like the predictable creature you are. If you fuck like you fight, Potter, it's no wonder you have trouble hanging on to your girlfriends."

Hermione groaned. Trust Malfoy to stir a pot that had already boiled over. Harry growled and made to grab Malfoy once more. It looked like Malfoy had likely been about to side-step Harry, but unfortunately, this never eventuated.

" _Petrificus totalis_!" Elizabeth Kent called out. She was standing at the back step with Padma Patil, who was sleep-mussed and dressed in a white, terry-cloth bathrobe. Both women were holding out their wands, though Padma looked markedly more disgruntled than the Debutante.

Malfoy froze in place, just in time to receive the full force of Harry charging into him for the second time that night. The pair went over into the already squashed Wolfsbane. To Hermione's disbelief, Harry straddled the now helpless Malfoy and began laying into him.

"Harry!" Padma yelled. She tossed her long braid over a shoulder, tightened the belt on her bathrobe and entered the fray.

Agent Kent raised her wand again. "Should I just—?"

"No!" said Padma and Hermione. It took the combined strength of both women to pull the spitting and swearing Harry off of Malfoy.

"Enough!" Hermione shouted, shoving Harry in the chest. "What in the blazes is wrong with you?"

To her astonishment, Harry turned his anger back on her. She didn't think she had ever seen him so furious, and certainly never this furious at her. 

"What the hell is wrong with _you_!"

"Me?"

"Yes, you!" Harry said. "What kind of mental case takes off for Merlin knows where, in the middle of the night, with Draco sodding Malfoy? I thought Kent was joking when she woke me up to tell me. But no, you actually went! Do you have any idea what could have happened to you!"

Hermione put some distance between them before she addressed him, slowly and calmly. She used her best, Head Girl's admonishing voice; honed to perfection while at Hogwarts. "Harry James Potter, you either want to have a conversation with me or you want to scream at me. If it's to be the latter, then I'm saying goodnight."

Some of the bluster leached out of him, leaving a weary and slightly sheepish Harry, but Hermione could still see the anger simmering just under the surface. It was probably just as well that Malfoy's sharp tongue was Petrified along with the rest of him. She watched Harry turn away from her, take two steps and then whirl back towards her with a frustrated expression.

"He's bad, Hermione! Bad for this operation and certainly bad for you! I didn't protest enough when you hatched the plan to break him out of Azkaban! That was my mistake. I should have told Scrimgeour. He might have talked some sense into you about how dangerous it is to have Malfoy here! I don't know how else I can get this fact across to you! I can't watch you all the time—"

"Whoa, hang on a minute," Hermione interrupted, hotly. "I don't _need_ you to watch me."

"If not me, then who?" Harry demanded. "If not Ron then it bloody well falls to me now!"

Hermione gaped at him. "Oh my God, that's it, isn't it? You think you've taken on the mantle from Ron. Is this some kind of macho bullshit thing? Watch over your best mate's girl because he can't?"

Harry stilled. "Are you my best mate's girl, then?"

During the ensuing silence, Hermione could practically feel the heavy stares of Kent, Padma and Harry. She was supremely annoyed to be the focus of what was essentially Harry's unreasonable behaviour. "What Ron and I are, or are not, _isn't_ what is under discussion here," she hissed.

"Too right." Harry nodded vigorously. "It's about you Apparating to parts unknown with a man that could kill you without hesitation. I've nearly lost one of my best friends. I'm not losing the other one because Draco Malfoy happens to have a super duper secret formula. I don't bloody care!"

Hermione saw red. She would have grabbed on to the front of Harry's shirt and hauled him closer if he'd still been wearing one, no matter that he was half a head taller than her. "That 'super duper secret formula' may very well save Ron, you dolt! It may save Taransay and every other person in the world who has been touched by this horror! So you think about how utterly selfish you sound when you say you _don't bloody care!_ Our situation cannot possibly be more desperate than it already is! I will do whatever I need to do!"

"That includes playing mental footsie with Malfoy, does it?" Harry spat back at her. "I'm not blind."

She reclaimed space between them, such that they were nose to nose. "Really? Then tell me what you see is happening out there. No one else, not even the Americans are any closer to a cure. Millions are dead and you have the audacity to be angry at me for putting myself at risk if it means we acquire a cure? Get used to it. You're going to be angry with me quite a bit before we're done. I love you, Harry and I know you love me, but what we're doing here trumps how we both feel."

Harry's jaw tensed. He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and scowled down at his feet. "You lecture me about selfishness and about necessity and yet you pander to the one person who is deliberately obstructing what could be a cure." His head came up and even in the darkness, Hermione could see the green blaze of his eyes. "Tell me, have you lectured _him_?"

She was silent for a moment, and then, "No."

"Why not?"

Hermione sighed. "Because it wouldn't work," she snapped. "Not with him."

"Then he really doesn't care?" Harry asked.

"I don't know," Hermione admitted. "But what I do know is that he's working on ReGen. And I've got three pages of his formula. I believe I have the means to secure the rest of it."

Harry snorted. "By jumping through hoops? By taking him on midnight joy rides?"

"I'll join the bloody circus if it's what it takes, Harry."

Harry attempted to respond, but Padma materialised between them and put a stalling hand on Harry's arm. He was fairly vibrating with anger. "I'd like to get back to bed at some point seeing as I have to be up in two hours. Also, I'm pretty sure Malfoy's nose is broken. If he's to stay pretty, it's best I mend it sooner rather than later."

"Shall I cut the spell, then?" Kent asked. She'd been so silent and so still that Hermione had nearly forgotten she was there. The Agent was standing over Malfoy, staring down at him with an expression of amused interest. The herbology book was in her arms.

"Do it after Harry's gone," Padma said. She looked pointedly at Hermione. "Take Harry and go. I've got this."

Harry and Hermione made to protest, but Padma cut them off with a quelling look. "Go! The sooner I mend Malfoy, the sooner I can get back to bed."

Hermione closed her eyes. Belated exhaustion settled over her; the aftertaste of the night's adrenaline roller-coaster. She opened her eyes and looked at the book that Kent was holding, and then she looked at Kent.

"May I have that?"

Slightly too much time passed between Hermione's request and Kent handing her the book. But she gave it up, nonetheless. Hermione had no doubt the agent would have preferred turning it in to Richards, instead.

Speaking of the Cowboy…

"Are Richards and Scrimgeour back from their Taransay visit yet?" Hermione asked.

"They're due later this morning," Kent replied.

"Then would you please send them a message to bring Neville Longbottom with them?"

"Neville?" Harry said. "Why do we need him more than Taransay does right now?"

Hermione's tone was still a little cool when she spoke to him. She was already opening the back door to enter the house. Beyond the rooftop, the sky was starting to take on a pink tinge.

"Because like Malfoy, Neville be able to help us."

* * *

Padma directed the re-animated Draco Malfoy to the chair at her workstation. "Sit."

He sat. Only, he didn't just sit. Rather, he arranged himself with a straight-backed formality that had probably been acquired through very expensive deportment lessons, or perhaps it was something built into his DNA. Padma knew all about very expensive deportment lessons, but the difference between her and Malfoy was that she couldn't be buggered keeping up the pretense. Slouching and slovenliness was not part of Malfoy's repertoire. To Padma, this trait was not something to be admired. Padma admired range in people, and Malfoy's was decidedly narrow.

Padma was even shorter than Hermione, which meant that the swivel chair was a little too low to the ground for him. His bent knees were nearly at level with her hips. With his hand under his streaming nose, he watched with forensic intensity as she took first-aid supplies from a shelf, put the items on a small metal trolley and wheeled the trolley back to her workstation.

"Tip your head back."

He did as asked. Blood ran down the side of his face, dripping onto the collar of his shirt.

"Try not to bleed on my notes," said Padma, as she slipped on a pair of latex gloves. She used both her thumbs to prod at the bridge of his nose, which was out of alignment.

"Ow."

"I see you've broken your nose before," she observed. "Fight?"

"Bludger."

"I hate Quidditch," Padma said. There was the sound of peeling plastic and the scent of disinfectant. "I know it's a shocking thing for any British witch or wizard to admit, but if I can't confess to that at the end of the world, then when can I?"

"It's not the—ow—end of the world quite— _ow_!" Malfoy caught her wrist and glared at her. "Do you know what you're doing?"

Padma snorted. "Of course. Do you?" She resumed poking and prodding.

He watched her from under her hands. "To what are you referring?"

"Your reasons for being here." Padma cast an anesthetising charm over the affected area, and then rubbed in one of Professor Yoshida's topical analgesics. "Sit still. Your nose is going to feel like it's not there in a moment. Just breathe normally."

She reached up with both hands and applied pressure. "There," she said, looking pleased with her work. "The swelling should go down in a week or so, but you're going to be sporting black eyes for a while longer." She moistened a wad of gauze with antiseptic solution and began to clean away the dried blood from the grazes on his cheeks.

"My reasons for being here are simple enough to discern. There's a pardon at the end of the tunnel," he told her.

"Tilt your chin up, please. Do you want the pardon?"

"I'm a fugitive without it."

"Let me re-phrase. Do you _need_ the pardon?"

There were two possible answers to that question—the one that was seemly and the one that was true. Or perhaps for Malfoy, they were one and the same. Padma doubted it, which was why she had posed the question in the first place. Also, he was taking some time to reply, which she hoped meant he was contemplating being honest in answering.

"No," came the eventual reply, without even a skerrick of lament.

"I didn't think so. You were never very good at remorse when we were at school. Regret when you got caught maybe, but never remorse. Alright, you can lower your chin now. Your eyes are swelling up already, but that's to be expected. Are you experiencing any dizziness, headache, nausea or loss of vision?" She shone a light into his eyes to check for pupil response.

He shook his head.

All seemed normal, so she turned off the light. The silver eyes that watched her were as cold and foreboding as a glacier. Padma idly wondered how Hermione could possibly see something of merit beyond this. Or perhaps Malfoy just looked at her differently?

"What does the personal value of my pardon have to do with anything?"

Padma nearly smiled at the question. He was curious about her reasons for asking. Maybe Malfoy was human after all?

"Because I'd feel better if you were helping us because you _want_ to and not merely as a means to an end. Because I worry that you're looking for a hundred different ways to break this agreement as soon as you find out how to get what you want without paying for it. Hermione can't seem to tell the difference between you wanting the pardon and you needing it."

"And I gather you do?"

Padma shrugged. "I was always the quiet, introspective twin, remember? The more noise Parvati made, the easier it was for me to sit back and observe."

"Parvati," he said, as if testing the quality of the word. But she knew he was simply dredging up his dim memory of her sister. "How did she die?"

Padma tossed the blood-soaked gauze and latex gloves into a bin. She began packing away the supplies. "Like so many others in this mess—badly. We're done here. You're free to return to your cell."

He stood and reached up to touch his now perfectly re-aligned nasal bones. He was tall, menacing and once again, blood-stained. Though, this time it was from his blood, not Hermione's.

"A cure is coming," he said. She wondered if this was his cryptic way of extending his condolences.

"And you and Hermione are going to be the ones to find it for us, I suppose?"

"My full expertise remains an option your team has yet to fully explore. As for Granger, she was and continues to be…" He searched for a word.

"Optimistic," Padma said, almost under her breath.

"Resourceful," he finished.

And then he smiled. Padma realised that he had done this very rarely when they were all at school. Mostly, he'd sneered. Sneers were not smiles, but they could pass for smiles when they were the only outward displays of pleasure you chose to show to the world. He didn't verbally thank her, but dipped his head in acknowledgement of her healing work, and then made to leave.

"Malfoy," she called out to him. It took every ounce of willpower not to demand more concrete answers from him. Padma was not meek by any stretch of the imagination, but she knew she was out of her depth when it came to Malfoy. You probably only got the truth out of men like Malfoy from men like Agent Richards. Likely, it involved a concrete room and a very loose interpretation of the Geneva Convention.

He paused at the door. Elizabeth Kent was hovering outside, waiting to escort him back to his cell.

"Keep in mind that if you hurt Hermione, I'll help Harry finish you off. And I don't need to use my fists. I have much more insidious methods at my disposal. Even you need to sleep some time, yes?"

His impassivity was inhuman, though Padma thought she could detect amusement. "I assure you, Dr Patil. Hermione Granger will not be in any peril, mortal or otherwise, in which she herself will not willingly engage."


	14. Land of the Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neville Longbottom joins Project Christmas, and makes plans to acquire a rare magical ingredient needed to improve the Team's ReGen serum. Ron awakens, with unexpected consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.

Neville Longbottom did not want to be at Grimmauld Place.

The small refugee community on Taransay Island had just been through hell and back, and they needed every working wand available to help put things to rights again. Harry and Ginny's recent departure from Taransay had been hard enough on everyone. He didn't quite know how, but after they left, Neville seemed to be calling more shots than following orders.

He was not used to being the guy _behind_ the clipboard, but if Taransay wanted…no, needed him to point and direct, then he would be that man for them. This was why Rufus Scrimgeour's unexpected visit and subsequent request to have him go back to London on a herbology consulting mission, of all things, was met with some resistance.

"No," Neville said to Scrimgeour, which was a word Neville was quite sure the Minister did not hear very often.

Scrimgeour's lips thinned. And then he said, very reasonably (damn the man). "Tell me of another Magibotanist who can help."

Neville thought long and hard. Possibly too long and not quite hard enough because Scrimgeour eventually grunted, as if they had reached the same conclusion.

"Pack your things, lad. You leave for London within the hour."

"Minister, I cannot simply leave these people right now."

Scrimgeour disagreed by nodding, which was very disconcerting. "Yes, you can. I'll remain behind to look after Taransay until you're done at Grimmauld Place."

A small, tentatively curious crowd was already gathering in the makeshift 'village green' in the middle of the tent city, where Neville was speaking with Scrimgeour. This space was used for the occasional haphazard bout of soccer or cricket, and in one unfortunate experiment—badminton. Not even an enchanted shuttlecock could withstand the Hebridean version of 'breeze'.

The magical folk stepped forward from amongst the assembled gawkers, recognising their Minister. Several senior citizens were looking misty-eyed to see him there. Everyone was still slightly emotional, Neville realised. Molly Weasley had suffered an acute case of Wobbly Chin when Harry had left and taken Ginny with him. Like her mother, the youngest Weasley had a way with people and had been a favourite of both the Muggles and the Magicals. She promised to keep the rest of the Weasleys updated on Ron's progress.

There was another man from Grimmauld Place who had accompanied Scrimgeour—an older man whom Neville did not know. He wore a cowboy hat, cowboy boots and was leaning against a tree with his arms folded, watching them. All that was missing was a sheriff's badge and a six-shooter at his hip. A small Muggle boy approached him and pointed at his hat, at which point the man took it off and set it atop the boy's head. It covered the lad's eyes, but you could still see the beaming smile just under the brim.

Scrimgeour introduced him as 'Agent Richards', from the US Wizarding Senate.

And if _that_ wasn't newsworthy enough, the Minister proceeded to explain it was best that Neville and Agent Richards hurry back to Grimmauld Place as soon as possible.

"I'd rather not leave my team alone with Draco Malfoy any longer than necessary."

 _Draco Malfoy, Neville_ thought, and then snorted. "Ha-ha. Good one, Minister."

* * *

A week later, Neville was seated cross-legged on the faded rug in the middle of Scrimgeour's temporary office at Grimmauld Place.

Around him were stacks of books and several scrolls—one of which he was having trouble keeping unfurled. After several frustrating minutes, he looked around for a paperweight and eventually settled for using one of his shoes. The fireplace sputtered, burned green for a moment and then a crouching Ginny Weasley stepped out into the room. She straightened, brushed the soot from her clothing and walked towards Neville. In her hands was a framed Chinese watercolour featuring a mountainous, tree-covered landscape.

"This it?" she asked, without preamble.

Neville took the painting from her. He produced a magnifying glass and peered closely at the artwork "Oh, well done, Ginny! Looks to be it! Was it hard to get to?"

Ginny sat on the floor beside him. "Thankfully not. Kew Gardens Library is a ghost town."

Neville gave her a commiserating look, noting how dejected she sounded. "Harry said you'd never been to the Gardens before."

"No," she confirmed. "Neither has Ron. We both have always wanted to go. And trust me, you don't want to see them in the state they're in now. Overgrown is putting it mildly. But the Herbarium and Library are pristine."

"And the Millennium Seed Bank?" Neville asked, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.

"Intact, as far as I could tell," Ginny said. "As well it should be. It's meant to be able to withstand one of those Muggle nuclear explosions, isn't it?"

He blinked with relief. It was embarrassing to admit, but occasionally Neville had nightmares about something untoward happening to the Seed Bank. Like someone leaving the door open and letting the moisture in, for example. For botanists (and Magibotanists alike), the Seed Bank was a botanical Noah's Ark. Only he was no Magibotanist, not really. It was just a hobby, which was why he really needed to be concentrating on what was in front of him right now. Professor Sprout would, of course, have been the ideal person to bring in on the Grimmauld Place operation, but she was not available. Neville would have to do. It was almost amusing how many times he'd been thrust into unwitting responsibility.

Unlike Hermione, thought Neville, who seemed to be _inherently_ responsible for most important things.

"It's very pretty," Ginny said, tilting her head to the side to observe the painting.

Neville agreed. They both stared in silent, aesthetic appreciation. And then he picked up his shoe and smashed the glass frame.

Ginny winced, but looked on eagerly to see if what they were looking for was there. Neville picked away the broken glass and then very carefully peeled the painting from its backing board. He turned the parchment over and there, in minute script, but still clearly visible, was an inscription in English.

"A-hah," breathed Neville. He held the inscription up to the light, running his lamentably grubby thumb gently across the writing. "This inscription adds to the dozen other similar references we've now collected on how to extract the Nectar from our specimen."

"You mean this Majestic Mountain Peach in that book Malfoy and Hermione brought back from Hogwarts?" Ginny asked.

"Kunlun Mountain Peach," Neville corrected, with a smile. "And yes, the text lists the Peach as the most powerful preservative known to magic. Its famous Nectar is exactly what Hermione and Malfoy need to augment ReGen. There isn't anything more potent. Apart from the Philosopher's Stone, of course."

"And I imagine that would be much harder to get seeing as Philosopher's Stones don't just grow on trees," Ginny commented, then frowned. "So where _do_ you find this special peach tree? Kunlun Mountain, I assume?"

Neville shook his head. "Kunlun Mountain is about as real as Mount Olympus. And I suspect the plant in question is not, in fact, of the prunus genus at all. I think it's really some kind of tuber—like the Mandrake."

Ginny made a sound to convey her growing impatience. "Where do we look for it, then? Is there even a specimen to be found? How is it going to help Ron if we don't even know where it is or what it looks like?"

"Oh, I know exactly where to find the only Kunlun Mountain Peach to still exist," Neville said. And then he looked distinctly troubled.

"Well?"

"See, this is where it gets a little tricky."

* * *

Hermione tossed the old copy of _Time_ magazine onto the kitchen table, where the Cowboy was presently going through a stack of supply requests—a task that needed to be taken over in Scrimgeour's absence. Richards picked up the magazine, glanced at it and then gave Hermione a curious look. His gaze moved to Neville, who stood at the doorway, eating a piece of toast.

"I prefer _Cosmo_ , but thanks for thinking of me, Miss Granger."

Hermione rolled her eyes and then pointed one nail-bitten finger to the figure on the cover. "Neville says _this_ is the man who has our Kunlun Mountain Peach."

Richards frowned down at the picture of a striking, black haired man in his early-thirties. He was seated sideways across an artfully distressed baroque armchair, a lopsided crown on his head and a scepter in his hands. The smirk on the man's face had a disturbingly Malfoy-ish quality to it.

"This… _peacock_?" Richards asked, incredulous. "Are you sure?"

"Poshitif," said Neville who was demolishing his marmalade on toast. Taransay had unfortunately been a marmalade-free zone and Neville was making the most of . "Alexander Amarov is the world's foremost collector of magical oddities. Among those in the know, it has been rumoured for many years now that he has managed to acquire the famed Peach."

"Right," Richards said. "He's one of those eccentric Muggle billionaire, isn't he? What the hell did he want it for?"

"I think he knew what it was, but he has no idea what to _do_ with it. His family originally made their money in botanical pharmaceuticals and somewhere along the line, Amarov developed a fascination with magical flora," Neville explained.

" _Allegedly_ magical flora," Hermione corrected. She was leafing through the article. "Before the Infection, he was never able to prove any of his claims regarding the existence of Magical folk. Or else I'm sure the Ministry might have had something to say about it."

"Alright, so Alexander Amarov probably has the Peach," Richards said, standing up. "Let's pay the man a visit."

"Do we know where he is?" Hermione asked. "I mean, he might not even be alive, right?"

Richards was already heading toward the kitchen stairs. "I can find out easily enough. Let me speak to my people on the Floo."

When the Cowboy was gone, Neville began preparing what was his fourth or fifth piece of toast. He'd lost count. "Who are 'his people', anyway?" he asked Hermione.

"I don't know, Neville. But they seem to have lots and lots of guns."

* * *

The lights in the basement ward were flickering.

There was no electricity supply to be sourced off the grid, but a second-hand generator had thus far been used to supply Grimmauld Place with power to all non-essential systems. The clinic and laboratory were rigged to run off a smaller, uninterrupted supply that was magically operated and as such, would not fail. Despite its decrepit state, the larger generator had been running well for the past six months, but had lately begun to develop problems. Harry was looking into it, or so he had promised.

The ward was pitched into momentary darkness, with nothing but the beeping red, blue and yellow lights and numerical displays on the equipment in Ron's room.

"Damn these lights," Padma complained. She was about to walk out into the corridor to turn the main switch off and back on again, when the ceiling lights returned.

Emily Finch was sitting in the chair beside Ron's bed, seemingly unperturbed by the intermittent blackouts. "You look dead on your feet," she told Padma, and then pulled a face. "Oops. Bad choice of words…"

Padma had enough energy left in her to laugh. "True. On both counts." She had been about to commence Ron's nine p.m. check-up. Emily was on a lab break, but dropped in for a visit with Ron just as Padma had arrived.

"Go and have a cup of tea or something," Emily said. "I've got this."

"His CVC needs to be looked at. And Mercer noted his blood pressure was slightly elevated yesterday, also—"

"Jesus, Padma, I can read the notes. Don't worry. Take a break or I'll tell Granger on you."

That made Padma snort. She removed her stethoscope from around her neck and groaned when the lights flickered again. "Hermione happens to be the Patron Saint of Overtime."

"Yeah, but she gets super annoyed when any of us take on a double shift without running it past her first."

Padma pondered this. "I think that may have more to do with messing up her roster. Hermione's ideal world is a world that runs on rosters. But I am going to take you up on your kind offer." She began to pack away her med-kit. "A cup of tea would be very nice. And these lights are giving me a bloody migraine."

"You know, Dr Mercer's on his break, too," Emily said, with a conspiratorial smile. The student nurse took a pair of latex gloves from the wall-mounted dispenser and began to pull them on. "I'm sure he'd love your company. Last time I saw he was in the kitchen trying to drink coffee through something called a Tim Tam."

Padma's eyed widened. "Don't play with me, Emily. Did you say there are Tim Tams in this house?"

"Uhuh," Emily said. "Neville Longbottom apparently had some stashed away at Taransay."

"Merlin, that's it. I'm definitely clocking out for Tim Tams!" Padma picked up her med-kit, but paused just outside the sliding, grill door, "Are you sure you're fine here with Ron?"

"Positive! Go!"

Padma went. Emily still wore a faint smile as she went about performing a routine check of the equipment, before approaching Ron. She removed the sheet entirely and pushed aside his hospital gown so that she could inspect his central line, as Padma had advised.

Emily immediately frowned. Something was very wrong. The skin around the catheter was the colour of an old bruise—yellow, black and purple—and it looked like it was beginning to suppurate. Already the flesh around his sternum was taking on a viscous sheen. And there it was…the smell. They all knew that stench so well by now. Emily hurriedly flicked through the patient notes to check when Ron had received his last dose of ReGen.

Could it be that someone had forgotten to administer it?

No. It was only three hours since his last dose and it had been given to him by none other than Hermione.

Hermione and Draco Malfoy talked about the ReGen Threshold like it was some kind of bogeyman lurking in the not-too-distant future. They were working themselves to exhaustion currently to find a means to stave off that dreaded inevitability. It was all for nothing, because Emily was quite sure she was looking at the Threshold currently. And that was bad news for everyone else on the outside who was currently surviving via ReGen.

"Shit," Emily hissed. She ran out to the corridor to see if Padma was still there.

She wasn't.

Emily walked back to the cell. Apart from Ron's outward appearance, nothing much had changed besides his blood pressure. The beeping and soft, rhythmic whispering of the equipment calmed her, somewhat. Nothing was going to be achieved by her running upstairs to call everyone to Ron's cell. Kate McAlister was on duty soon with Professor Yoshida. Emily decided to take a blood sample to their virologist first, and make absolutely certain of her suspicions before Harry, Hermione or Ginny Weasley were informed. It would be the prudent thing to do.

With shaking hands, she took a syringe from the supply cabinet and approached Ron. The clipboard of notes had been left on the edge of the bed. Emily's hip brushed against it and the plastic clipboard clattered to the floor. She instinctively ducked down to reach for it.

The lights flickered again and then the room was plunged into darkness.

The clipboard had fallen somewhere under the bed. Emily crawled on her hands and knees now, still holding the capped syringe. She stretched her free hand out as far as it would go, moving her palm over the floor to feel for the clipboard. Her fingers found it just as her cheek came into contact with Ron's hand. It had been hanging over the edge of the bed.

Not at all where Padma had left it. His skin was warm.

Ever so slowly, holding her breath, Emily crawled backwards—retreating from the bed and from Ron. Her eyes were opened wide and her mouth had gone completely dry. She was too terrified to even swallow because of the sound it might make. She stood, rising inch by inch, unfortunately coming into contact with an unused IV stand in the corner. It rolled across the floor briefly. In response, there was a quick, soft noise from the bed—like sheets being pulled sharply across the mattress. Emily wanted to run, and damn it she could run so very fast, but not in this darkness, possibly into a wall or a pillar or into whatever it was that was moving around the—

Another sound; a long rattling breath that seemed to go on for eons.

_Lights. Pleasepleasepleaseplease…._

She was not Magical, she did not carry light with her like Padma or Hermione or Harry.

Suddenly, it was bright again. _Too_ bright. Emily winced and covered her eyes with her forearm, but not before she saw the tall, hunched figure standing beside the bed. It took a few seconds for her pupils to adjust, but when they did, she uncapped the syringe with wildly shaking hands and held it out defensively in front of her.

Ronald Weasley's eyes were wide open. They were not brown, like his sister's. Emily had forgotten just how blue they were.

And they were staring straight at her.


	15. Held Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The saboteur is revealed. Project Christmas loses four members in one horror-filled evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.

Hermione stared at the monitor; at the output from the six hours of modelling they had conducted using the computer. She frowned. And because she was just that frustrated, she shook her fist at it.

Malfoy's low laugh was almost inaudible, but she heard him because she was standing directly over him as he sat in a chair in front of the computer. "If threats don't work, you could try bribery next."

And you would know all about such unscrupulous methods, she thought. It took effort not to cast a glance at the whiteboard to their left, which contained a summary of the D.R.A.C.O notes he had thus far ceded to them. It was a slow process which frustrated Kate McAlister even more than it did Hermione. That made sense because McAlister was a virologist and it was a special kind of torture to be offered mere fragmented glimpses of the Holy Grail, so to speak. Malfoy was as good as his word—more pages had been forthcoming over the past week and a half, and so far he had traded them for seemingly inconsequential things. And despite Harry's dire predictions, none of those bargains had involved Hermione.

"Not yet," Harry warned. "Give the bastard some time to work up to it again."

But then D.R.A.C.O had been temporarily put out of their minds as their most recent augmented batch of ReGen began to fail. Given the rate of failure, it was no longer appropriate to keep testing the drugs on Ron. This was why Mercer had introduced the SVM technique, which allowed them to run computer models of the various permutations of ReGen to see how each fared against an Infection that continually mutated.

Hermione picked up the report and scowled. "Why do we keep getting different results? Are we even using this thing correctly?

"Get Mercer to check," Malfoy suggested. His broken nose had now healed completely, although at close quarters, you could still see the shadow of the awful bruising.

"No," Hermione said, "Alec's on his break right now. Let him be."

"It could be input error," Malfoy suggested. He picked up a mug of what smelled like brandy with a splash of coffee.

" _You_ drew up the data set."

A shrug. "I'm not infallible."

"Really?" Her eyebrows rose. "You act like you are."

Malfoy gave her a snooty look which might have been endearing on any other person. "I am not to be blamed for your flawed perception of me."

Hermione was pretty sure if she lit a match, the space between them would be set alight by the alcohol on his breath. He was not yet close to being drunk, but there was potential for it. It had been a slow, frustrating day.

So what _did_ you do when your work and productivity was taking a nosedive and you'd been up for thirty-six hours straight and the last time you had anything to eat was when Neville Longbottom gave you a piece of toast and right now Draco Malfoy was looking at you like you were the chess board in a game he was playing with a master?

"Give that here," she muttered, taking the cup from his hands.

Hermione drained the remainder of its corrosive contents, very aware that he had turned his chair around to completely face her. She was standing between his legs as he sat, sprawled and relaxed. He was no longer smiling. There was something of the odd anger she had witnessed in him on their recent jaunt to Hogwarts. It wasn't anger _at her_ , per se. Rather, she suspected it might be self-directed. He didn't seem to enjoy intimacy that he didn't have complete control over. She wondered if, like her, he sometimes forgot himself when they were together. Whatever 'himself' was…

These musing were soon waylaid by the burning in her throat. "Bloody hell," Hermione wheezed, her eyes watering.

Amused, he took the mug from her. There was silence. It was impossible to turn her attention back to the computer screen, not with the way he was contemplating her. "What would you want to do right now, if you could do anything you wanted?"

Hermione was immediately flustered, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol. Coming from Malfoy, that was like asking her to name her favourite song. She searched his pale face and was very perturbed to find genuine—dare she say it— _friendly_ curiosity there? And a languor that seemed to be stealing into her, too. She ought to be pleased that his opacity was not a permanent state of affairs. There were depths to him, obviously, and she seemed to be staring into several layers right now.

"I'd rather be looking at outputs that confirm we've permanently fixed ReGen," she said, stiffly. She picked up a stack of old reports and walked to Padma's unoccupied desk, several meters away. It was strange how proximity was never an issue when they were working. At all other times, she couldn't be far enough away from him.

"I don't mean what you want to happen right this minute, in this room, in this reality. I mean if all this never happened, what would you want to do?" he persisted.

She shrugged. "I suppose I'd be back at the Ministry working in R&D."

"That's what you did before the Infection?"

"Yes." Sometimes, it was easy to forget he'd been out of the loop for years.

"But was that what _you_ wanted to do?"

Hermione opened her mouth to say yes, but then caught herself. She'd always had the aptitude for research, but was it really her chosen vocation? Was it her calling? Goodness, she'd never really thought about it. There had been no real alternative career, certainly not when Voldemort had been a threat. Just thinking about Voldemort put things back into perspective.

"Some of us don't have that have the luxury of options when dark wizards and their idiot followers decide they're going to try to destroy everything."

He apparently disagreed. "Oh, you had options. You're Muggleborn. Voldemort was not part of the world you were born into. You could have walked away."

That made her furious, and inexplicably disappointed with him. "Voldemort would have ended up being a Muggle and Magical problem. You're either delusional to not know that, or your being deliberately disingenuous. And if you think I would have just left Ron and Harry to deal with him, then you've learned nothing about me these past few weeks."

He stood and walked across the room to her. As usual, the clothes he wore were borrowed—on this occasion, Felix Wallen's blue jeans and a plain, black t-shirt. It was ironic how well he wore clothing that did not suit him in the slightest. But then she really had no idea what suited Malfoy anymore. Not formal robes, seemingly. Not the combat gear he'd worn to hospital mission, and not his prison uniform.

"I said you could have walked away, not _would_ have," Malfoy said, when he was standing before her. "My knowledge of what that distinction means when it comes to you, Granger, demonstrates just how much I do understand you."

She didn't reply, instead fixed her eyes on a spot across the room.

Malfoy's head dipped low. "You're angry," he concluded, sounding almost cajoling. "Why?"

Hermione looked him in the eye. "Because when you're like this, you make me forget who you are."

She remembered their macabre conversation in the bathroom shortly after he had arrived at Grimmauld Place. It felt like years had passed since the dangerous tension of those early, difficult days.

_"Bad people are to be found anywhere, if you care to look."_

_"Indeed. There's one right here in this room."_

_"_ So tell me if I have the right measure of you, Granger. You care because it is your nature to do so, and you help because you can."

"Because I have to!" And Merlin, the resentment in her voice shocked her. When she finally mustered up the temerity to look at him, he was watching her with something akin to pity.

"It must be utterly exhausting being in that head of yours," he said, sounding exasperated on her behalf. To her dismay, he raised a hand and tucked a curl behind her ear. This was the second time he touched her in such a manner; the first time being during their outing to Hogwarts. His fingers lingered around the shell of that ear, causing her skin to flush from her hairline to her décolletage. "Even now you're worried that you're being selfish by merely _thinking_ that you might be selfish."

She caught his hand and was thrown off guard, once more, when he threaded his fingers through hers. What was even worse was that she let him. His larger hand was warm and strong. She relaxed, letting him take the load of perhaps more than just the combined weight of their hands. The idea of sharing her burden was suddenly so painfully delicious that she momentarily reeled from it. For the first time in a very long time—years, perhaps—she felt tempted to articulate a dark, shameful thought.

_Maybe I don't want to do any of this anymore?_

The idea was taboo. To think such things was forbidden and she would die before she gave in to such indulgence. And yet there was something about Malfoy that made her long to simply say it.

He seemed to sense how close she was to admitting it. "Let me ask you this, then—what do you want?"

It was wrong how quickly the answer came to her. She was starting to feel the hot itch of tears, which went along nicely with the lump of shame in her throat. "I want to not be needed."

"Yes." He nodded. "Spread the load, Granger. You carry it all and you are splintering beneath the weight. I am equal parts baffled and amazed that something so small and fragile could have lasted so long."

That annoyed her. She had enough prejudice to contend with, being Muggleborn and a woman. "I am far from fragile."

His hand slid to the back of her neck, under the heavy weight of her hair. Using his thumb and middle finger, he pressed deeply into the base of her scalp, massaging. Good God, it was bliss. Her eyes shut and she told herself she should move away now…soon…

_Oh, bloody hell that felt good._

"Your breaking points are all too easy to discern. You wouldn't have survived a week in Voldemort's ranks."

Despite the fact it was insanity to offer any form of encouragement to him, she could not summon the willpower to pull away. Her forehead fell forward to allow him better access to her neck. She felt his lips at her hairline, felt his warm breath there. What was happening?

"What are your breaking points?" she asked him in return. "How are we so different?"

"I'm pragmatic," he said. She could feel the low rumble of his voice. "Flexible."

"I'm not?"

"Not like Scrimgeour and Richards. And you won't even let them do their jobs."

Hermione understood what he was saying and was alarmed enough to lift her head and stare at him. He didn't release her. Instead, she felt his hand slide around to her spine, kneading all the way. For weeks now she had watched those same, strong, long-fingered hands at work—writing, typing, measuring, dispensing, administering. He was meticulous, hard-working, startlingly intelligent and inherently intuitive when it came to his research.

He possessed all the qualities she admired and yet he was also Draco Malfoy. The world had gone crazy, clearly. And why not? It was on the brink of annihilation.

"You think I should have let Richards torture you for the information?"

"It's what I would have done and it's not too late to change your mind."

"You're mad."

His left hand was threaded through her right hand and his right hand was now cupping her cheek, tilting her chin up to meet his mouth. Malfoy was treating her like fine, bone China, like she was every bit as fragile as he purported her to be. He was going to kiss her, and this time, there had been no bargain laid out regarding D.R.A.C.O. This was just him and her and quite possibly too much stress and too much brandy on empty stomachs.

Alarms went off at both Padma and Hermione's work stations. They were not loud, but they were urgent.

Malfoy's head came up sharply. "What is that?"

Hermione had already gone pale. "Ron!" she said, by way of explanation. She rushed to her computer and searched through the numerous windows on the desktop until she found the one that displayed the readings on the equipment monitoring Ron's status. "Odd. They're not registering anything," she said, frowning.

"Do you mean—"

"No," she replied, knowing what he was going to suggest. "They're not indicating he's in trouble." She blinked in puzzlement. "It looks like he's been disconnected from all the equipment. Or there's been some kind of catastrophic power failure. I'm going down to have a look."

Hermione hurriedly opened her desk drawer to pull out a med-kit and then ran to the lab entrance just as Honoria Cloot was entering.

"Oh, good!" Hermione exclaimed, relieved to see the Mediwitch. "We have to get downstairs to Ron! He's—"

" _Imperio_ ," said Honoria.

* * *

"Put down your kit and give me Malfoy's tether," Honoria demanded.

Hermione dropped the bag on the floor, but then remained motionless.

"I said—"

"You're wasting your time," Malfoy said. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were trained on the wand Honoria held out towards Hermione. "I'm tethered to Agent Kent at the moment."

"Oh," said Honoria, looking momentarily put out. "Hermione, be a dear and find Elizabeth Kent for me. Bring her back here. Tell her you need urgent assistance. Wake her up if you have to. Do you understand?"

Hermione nodded.

"Excellent. Go."

Honoria waited until the laboratory doors had fallen shut, before she turned to look at Malfoy.

" _You_ ," he said, folding his arms.

Honoria smiled.

* * *

Hermione raged, trapped in a tiny portion of her own mind where she was permitted to see, hear, feel, touch and even speak, but her actions were not of her own volition. She was a puppet. The sadistic thing about _Imperio_ was that it made you feel like _you_ were pulling your own strings as soon as the spell-caster's instructions were relayed. There was also a very slight feedback loop between Hermione and Honoria. If Hermione dulled her panic, she could only just make out that Honoria was anxious, but excited. _Happy excited_. That was good. That meant no one needed to be harmed or killed just yet, including Malfoy.

"Hi," Mercer said, as he passed her on the landing.

 _Alec, help me_! Hermione wanted to shout. Of course, nothing came out.

"If you're looking for Tim Tams, you'd better hurry. Padma's demolishing the last packet." He bounded on ahead, taking two steps at a time.

Hermione looked down at her feet and willed them to stop. They didn't. So she continued along the landing, past the room where Professor Yoshida was speaking energetically with Richards. The Cowboy was chuckling. It was such a rare and pleasant sound, coming from him. She walked past the room that Neville shared with Harry, and finally stopped at the last room—the one used by Padma and Agent Kent. Hermione turned the door handle. It opened. Padma was in the kitchen, as Mercer had said, but Agent Kent was asleep. This was not surprising considering she had recently finished a twelve-hour duty shift. As it happened, Hermione did not need to speak to wake her. The Debutante roused as soon as the door opened. Groggy and with sleep-creases on her cheek, she still looked like a fairy-tale princess.

"Granger? Is everything alright?" she asked, her voice still sleep-rough. Her wand was already in her hand.

Hermione wanted to weep. Elizabeth Kent was formidable; as good as Harry and perhaps as ruthless in a fight as Malfoy. But even she would not think to defend herself against one of her own; against a friend.

"Please come to the lab right away. I need you," Hermione heard herself say.

_Don't listen to me!_

Kent frowned. "What is it?"

"Please come with me now."

It took Kent all of two minutes to pull on a t-shirt over her tank top and sweat pants, and follow Hermione back down the stairs. There, they ran into Harry. Hermione wanted to scream from frustration when Harry didn't ask them where they were going in such a hurry. And damn it, Kent did not offer up an unsolicited explanation.

 _HARRY! HARRY! HARRY!_ Hermione bellowed, silently and desperately. _HELP!_

But he kept on going.

Hermione reached the lab doors first and pushed them open. She tried to do a hundred different things to stall, to send subtle signals to Kent that a trap lay beyond those doors, but none of it worked. Inside the lab, Honoria stood with her wand held out, her lips slightly parted in anticipation.

And then there was Malfoy. He looked very serious. Minutes ago, he had been holding her hand. Now, she barely recognised him. The dubious ally and scientist was gone.

She was now looking at the Death Eater.

* * *

Harry paused. He turned around slowly, assailed by the oddest feeling as he watched Hermione and Kent walk to the end of the corridor and disappear into the lab.

* * *

Honoria cast the Killing Curse as soon as Elizabeth Kent shut the lab doors behind her. A bright burst of green light briefly illuminated the room. Hermione stood beside Kent's body, looking directly ahead at nothing in particular.

Kent fell rather gracefully to the ground, all things considered. Her long, blonde hair fanned about her head and her wand lay in her slack hand. The golden tether materialised around her wrist, now vividly corporeal. Honoria picked it up and knotted it around her own wrist. After that, she snapped Kent's wand in half.

"Are we clear on what needs to happen now?" she asked Malfoy.

"Crystal," he enunciated.

In the short time Hermione had been on her errand to find Kent, Malfoy had already gathered all their records regarding ReGen. Honoria took an empty document box from the shelves and instructed Malfoy to fill it with the notes and data.

"Quickly," she snapped, looking anxiously at the door. "We have less than half an hour before the next shift commences." She began frantically cleaning the whiteboard notes. 

"Done," Malfoy informed. He dropped the box on the floor, none too gently.

"Now wipe the computers."

That made him laugh, though there was no real amusement there. "Your faith in me is humbling, Miss Cloot. But you do realise that if I fail to create a vaccine, this team will effectively be humanity's last hope? If we sabotage them, we may very well be sabotaging ourselves."

"My employer is willing to take that chance."

"But are _you_?"

Honoria pointed her wand at him. "I go where the advantage goes, as do you. You're a survivor first and then a scientist. Now, are you going to see to the computers or do I have to get creative?"

Malfoy did not move. Honoria rolled her eyes. "Fine."

She extended her wand towards each of the laboratory's nine machines and cast a spell that slowly crushed them. It wasn't as precise as manual deletion of the data, but it would have to do. The room filled with the sound of crunching, twisting metal and an acrid, chemical stench. When this task was completed, Honoria walked to the laboratory's bank of portable hard drives and did the same to them.

"There will be backups elsewhere," Malfoy pointed out.

"No doubt," Honoria replied. "This isn't going to stop Project Christmas, this will merely slow them down and provide my employer with a healthy lead. And speaking of slowing them down…" She turned to Hermione. "Come here."

Hermione obediently walked to Honoria, stopping just beside Padma's desk.

"Hermione, I want you to take a scalpel from Patil's med-kit."

"What are you doing?" Malfoy hissed. "We don't have time for this. If you want us to leave, we need to do it _now_."

"Indeed," said Honoria, "but I'm going to ensure we have a head start if they choose to pursue us. Hermione, hold the scalpel against your neck. Now, I want you to—"

"Think this through," Malfoy interrupted. "If you harm her, I guarantee Potter will be doubly enthusiastic when it comes to tracking us down!"

The soft 'pop' of Apparation was audible in the tense atmosphere of the lab, but the brief warning did not provide sufficient time for Honoria to defend herself.

"You should listen to him," Harry said. He had appeared directly behind Honoria. "He's known me far longer than you have."

In short order, Honoria was brought to the ground. She fired a Hex once, twice. The second spell glanced off a wall, narrowly missing Hermione, who remained transfixed with her hand clenched around the scalpel. It was pressed lightly to the side of her neck, but with enough pressure to cause blood to bead from a small puncture.

Harry locked Honoria's arms behind her back. She trashed and bucked briefly, but with a final whimper of pain, threw down her wand.

"Malfoy, get it!" Harry called out.

Malfoy sighed. "Oh, Potter. You really should take more care in selecting your allies," he said, before he kicked a stunned Harry under the chin. " _That's_ for breaking my nose."

Harry was laid out flat on his back, staring at Malfoy was incredulous horror. H wand skidded across the laminate floor, stopping just under Padma's desk, beside Hermione.

Now released from Harry's hold, Honoria scrambled madly for her own wand. She grinned when she retrieved it, but the look of triumph died on her face as her gaze travelled past Malfoy, to the lab entrance.

Ronald Weasley stood just inside the doorway, looking hollow-eyed and emaciated. His posture was hunched and rigid and he was leaning slightly to the left. The entire left side of his hospital gown was stained with blood, as was the lower half of his face. In his fisted right hand, he held a clump of short, blood-matted, blonde hair that was still attached to a patch of scalp. There was a syringe sticking out of the base of his neck.

Harry lifted himself up to a sitting position. He was bleeding profusely from his mouth and nose, such that blood burbled over his lips when he tried to speak.

Malfoy remained very still, his body in a defensive stance, his hands held tensely at his side. He spoke to Honoria without looking at her. "Release Granger."

Honoria did not respond. She remained stunned as she gaped at Ron.

But it appeared that Ron only had eyes for Hermione, who was closest to him. With sharp, jerking movements, he stepped over Kent's body. His bare feet left faint, bloody footprints along the floor. He stopped in front of Hermione and raised a clenched hand. Hermione's expression was serene, her eyes fixed at a spot over Ron's shoulder. However, a single tear slid down her cheek.

It required apparent effort for Ron to open his trembling fist, one stiff finger at a time, and then place his curled hand against Hermione's face. It left a bloody trail along her skin. His movements were clumsy as he tried to stroke her cheek. A look of acute frustration contorted his face at his inability to refine his movements. His wrist bumped the scalpel Hermione held, and it cut her. Blood pooled just below her clavicles. Ron made a low, keening sound and bent his head down to Hermione.

" _Ron_ ," Harry yelled, spluttering blood from his nose. He looked horrified. "Ron, mate…you're not well. Come away from Hermione. You need to let us help you." Harry tried to get up, but stopped when Ron turned his head toward Harry and released a soft, threatening growl.

"Potter, I strongly suggest you remain very still," Malfoy advised. At the sound of his voice, Ron's gaze briefly flickered to Malfoy, but it was obvious his attention was fixed on Hermione.

" _Do something_ ," Harry whispered to Malfoy and Honoria. He stared at his own wand, under Padma's desk.

Another tear slid down Hermione's cheek. Ron flicked out his tongue, the colour of eggplants, and licked at the salty trail. He began to nuzzle her while making a low, whining sound.

"Malfoy, help her," Harry said, openly pleading this time. He was struggling to stay upright.

"Honoria, you will end the spell immediately or I will not leave with you," Malfoy threatened, his diamond-hard stare attempted to bore holes into the back of Honoria's head.

But she wasn't looking at him, or apparently hearing him. Malfoy then began walking towards Hermione, but stopped short when Ron's head snapped towards him. The tender expression he wore was now replaced with a feral snarl. The warning was clear— _keep away_.

" _Finite incantatum_ ," Honoria finally said, although she made no attempt to assist Hermione any further. She gave Malfoy a pointed look before slowly crawling across the floor and taking hold of the box of records.

When the spell was ended, Hermione shuddered and then seemed to collapse in on herself. The scalpel fell to the floor. Her eyes shut momentarily, but when they opened she stared at Ron with a mixture of grief and horror, and then tried to step away from him.

His hands clamped around her upper arms, fingers digging into her flesh, clawlike,

"Ronald…" she said, "it's me. Hermione."

But that was precisely the problem. He knew her, but he did not appear to know what he wanted to do with her. He hauled her closer, shaking her. And then suddenly, he stopped. The look he gave Hermione was full of agony. His mouth seemed to work for a moment, his lips forming the required syllables.

"Hermione?" he whispered. And _this_ was Ron. This was the boy from the train with the smudge on his nose who had looked with envy at Harry and had hoped for his friendship. It was Ron, who fought alongside Harry and was ashamed for all the times he had not. Ron, who loved Quidditch and his mum and was bad with girls, but always knew he would ask Hermione Granger to marry him someday, when Harry did not need them to fight for him anymore.

Hermione tried to push him away, but Ron held fast. And then he moved his hands from her arms up to her face, holding her head in a constricting vise. If there had been the light of reason in Ron's eyes before, it was beginning to fade as Hermione struggled in his grasp. The humanity disappeared, leaving wildness in its wake.

Her snarled, opening his mouth wide, bringing her head to him.

Honoria was utterly frozen in fascinated horror. Harry staggered to his feet.

It was Malfoy who darted forward; a quicksilver blur. He picked up the scalpel Hermione had dropped and ran it across the back of Ron's Achilles tendons. Ron immediately collapsed to the ground. Thick, viscous blood pooled around his feet. Malfoy's hand moved again and Padma's scalpel, always so exquisitely maintained, sliced across Ron's throat, through blood vessels and tendons, stopped only by bone. Ron twitched once as the blood supply to his Infected brain was severed. There was a long, soft wheeze of escaping breath before his eyes closed.

Hermione sagged down against the side of Padma's desk.

Malfoy crouched down beside her. "Granger," he said, quickly, urgently. "Look at me."

She complied, though her eyes were wide and unfocussed with shock. " _You killed Ron_."

Honoria appeared beside them, carrying the box of notes. She placed a shaking hand on Malfoy's shoulder. "Time to go."

* * *

It was another ten minutes before Professor Yoshida arrived at the lab for the start of his shift with Kate McAlister. He was in good spirits after a rather rousing debate with Agent Richards.

The Potions Master found young Elizabeth Kent on the floor, dead and cold. Harry Potter was unconscious not far from her and Hermione Granger was sitting in a pool of black blood beside the grisly remains of Ronald Weasley. She was holding his hand.


	16. Armada

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honoria plays her hand. Draco arrives at Amarov's fleet to learn that the man himself is missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.

Draco stood on the dock watching the approaching storm. The air was humid and heavy with the scent of rain. Stretched out before him was the North Sea; currently the colour of charred iron.

He contemplated his new companions.

To his right was Ivan, who seemed to be wearing leftover fabric from the type of lounges you would find at a brothel—the kind you could wipe down easily. On the left was Anatoli, who was enormous, quiet and nervous. There was a third, an angry and agitated fellow who hadn't given up his name yet. Details were important in situations like these, and so:

"What's your name, friend?" Draco asked the man, in Russian.

The man opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Ivan. "Don't speak to him or look at him," Ivan warned.

Draco responded with amusement. "I'm a wizard, not Medusa."

"Oh, we know about weezards," countered Ivan. He spat on the ground in front of Draco's feet, a universal declaration of 'fuck you'. His dumpy face twisted up into a sneer. "You are a crime against nature!"

"That suit is a crime against nature," Draco muttered, in English now. He would like very much to kill someone that evening. Well someone who _wasn't_ already the walking dead.

Ivan took a cock-strutting step toward Draco. Impossibly, his suit managed to make more noise than the wind. "What you say?"

Close-up, Draco could see the tell-tale scars on Ivan's face; the old cuts above his eyebrows and the misshapen nose and cauliflower ears. Ivan was no stranger to pugilism. All he needed was an excuse.

"I said I really like your gold chain. Very Eastern bloc mafia."

Ivan's hand went up to his chest, to the aforementioned chain, but then he caught the look on Draco's face and the cautious confusion due to his stunted English turned into a sneer. "Shut up, weezard! I think you not be so brave without wand, yes? You wait until we are on the _sheep_!"

Draco decided to let that one pass. Low hanging fruit, etcetera.

"Are there no wands on your vessel?" Draco inquired, wisely switching back to Russian.

It was the unnamed man who answered this time. "Yes. Mr Amarov's rules. We have many wizards…and some witches," he added, with a level of smarminess that made Draco want to shove him off the dock. "But no wands. Magic does not rule our fleet, Alexander Amarov does," he finished, with chest-swelling pride.

"Magic always rules, my dull-witted Muggle friend," Draco said. "We've just been content to let you lot think you've been running the show all this while."

The man predictably raised a hand and Draco felt the familiar, welcomed flutter of adrenaline, along with a keenness and focus that only came when he wreaked violence or played Quidditch. Or when he was on the cusp of a hard-earned breakthrough in his research. It was a strange mania that he had seen perfectly reflected in Hermione Granger's eyes.

"Your magic cannot help you now, freak!" The unnamed thug wasn't a terribly large man nor did he have terribly large hands, but the heavy gold watch he sported could probably concuss. 

"Igor!" snapped Honoria, who had finished making a radio call in the dilapidated shed beside the dock and had now joined her associates. She looked extremely troubled and Draco did not think it was due to Ivan's and Igor's fashion sense.

"Where is the boat?" Igor demanded. He tapped at his hideous watch.

In response, Honoria pointed to the water. A white luxury cruiser cleaved out of the darkness, stopping beside the dock. The pilot looked harried from having to navigate in such atrocious conditions.

"Quickly! Before the storm comes!" he called out.

Draco was taken below deck, where he was pushed into a butter-soft, modular leather lounge and gruffly asked if he wanted anything to eat or drink. He declined. The thugs, with the exception of the quiet one—Anatoli—played with numerous remote controls and Ivan eventually whooped with delight when the correct button was accidentally pressed. An enormous, flat screen TV appeared from inside a recessed mahogany wall panel. Of course, there was nothing broadcasting from the commercial stations other than pre-recorded, emergency announcements, so the men selected music from a media centre.

Ignoring the too-loud music and the cavorting bodyguards, Draco took his time taking proper stock of Honoria. Despite the whole scenario appearing to be something out of an Ian Fleming novel, Honoria Cloot was far from a typical Bond villainess. She was plain, almost mousy. Easy to overlook both physically and professionally in a house that contained such formidable women as the late Elizabeth Kent, Kate McAlister, Padma Patil and Hermione Granger. Everything about her was nondescript, which essentially made her an ideal spy. She was no Severus Snape, but she was good. _Very_ good. This was just as well because an incompetent spy was a dead spy. Honoria rested her elbows on a breakfast bar, looking down pensively at her clasped hands. She was favouring her left leg, Draco noted. The injury had probably been earned from her brief scuffle with Potter.

Soon enough, she felt the weight of Draco's gaze. "You have questions, Malfoy," she stated, having to shout a little over the music. "Ask me."

He obliged her. "How long have you been working for Amarov?"

"Not questions about _me_ ," Honoria said, tiredly. "Ask about your new appointment."

"Very well. Amarov has the Kunlun Mountain Peach, doesn't he? Just as Longbottom's been saying?"

Honoria nodded. "Yes. And given that Agent Richards and Granger are planning to track down my employer, it seemed like the right time for me to take my leave. Especially when it seems Amarov already has in his possession the very thing that may assist in creating a cure. It was serendipitous, you could say." She smiled. "He'll be pleased when I tell him."

"He has the Peach, but he has no idea what it can do?"

There it was again—she looked worried. "He hasn't been available for me to speak to recently, but he'll know soon enough."

"I gather Amarov has his own scientific team," Draco concluded. "Which means your mission was to infiltrate us and see how far we get with a cure. And sabotage the project if we came too close. Is that about right?"

Honoria was now drumming her fingers on the breakfast bar. "Suffice it to say that Amarov means to control the supply of the cure."

Draco snorted. He leaned back into the lounge and propped his right leg over his left knee. "You mean charge governments for it."

She smiled in response. From the corner of his eye, Draco could see that Anatoli was watching and listening a little more intently that his comrades.

"And what if I fail?" Draco said. "There is no guarantee I'll do any better than Scrimgeour's team. Or Amarov's, for that matter."

Honoria went to a refrigerator and pulled out a chilled bottle of champagne. She uncorked it and then filled a pair of tall, crystal flutes that she retrieved from a soft-closing cabinet.

"Of course you'll do better. You'll give us all you have and I know you'll do that because as I've already promised, I will obliterate the Grimmauld Place operation and everyone who resides there if you don't. As soon as I told Amarov that Scrimgeour had you, Amarov decided he wanted D.R.A.C.O for _our_ cause. The cure will be _our_ invention. My latest priority has been to find the right kind of motivation for you to work with us." She walked across to the lounge and handed Draco a champagne flute. "You're a Death Eater," she told him, with a smirk. "I think you understand the importance of proper motivation."

"Finally." Draco exhaled with mock relief. "Someone who appreciates a good torture threat."

"Oh, but we're not talking about the threat of pain." She perched on the armrest at the other end of the lounge, as she sipped her champagne. "At least not _yours_. How curious that a Death Eater should be so concerned about the very people that helped put him in prison. Or is it just the _one_ member of that team that makes you engage in all manner of foolish heroics?" Her fingers played with the stem of her champagne flute. "Do you know? If I had help, I might have brought Granger along with us as added insurance. What do you say to that?"

She attempted to outstare him, to bait him into responding, but Draco's gaze was unflinching. He sipped at his champagne very slowly, letting a full measure of cold, contained rage seep into his eyes. "This is very nice," he said, the simple words pregnant with malignancy. 

Honoria blinked. She looked away abruptly and drank deeply from her own glass until there was nothing left. "Perhaps Alexander will gift us with a bottle when we've cracked the cure."

He regarded her with genuine curiosity now. "You're only a few years older than I am, aren't you? Which means we might have been at Hogwarts at the same time."

And it seemed that further unsettling Honoria was as easy as asking her about her schooling years. She set her flute down on the stone counter, too hard.

"What House did you belong to? Definitely not Slytherin. I don't remember you and I make a point of remembering."

A tight smile stretched across her face. "Perhaps for people like you, some details are not worth noticing."

Draco also smiled, but his was predatory. "Oh, this is just precious. You're Muggleborn aren't you? Are you? I think you are. All this—" he gestured to everything around them, "is because you felt slighted at school? What happened? Were you bullied? Did no one ask you to the Yule Ball?" His eyes narrowed. "Was it a case of unrequited love with a Pureblood?"

" _Ivan_ ," Honoria hissed. And apparently that was all she needed to say.

He moved quickly, but Draco had been expecting it. Ivan reached down to haul him from his seat by the front of his t-shirt, but Draco used his lower position to his advantage. He made a pointed fist and drove two knuckles into the front of Ivan's throat. The man's eyes bulged as his grabbed at his neck with both hands, making desperate, wheezing noises. With his abdomen now exposed, Draco punched him hard and then, as an afterthought, picked up his champagne flute before Ivan careened backwards into the coffee table, which promptly collapsed under his weight.

Igor had predictably brandished a handgun by now, but Draco was well aware that no one was going to shoot him. And a gun was only as threatening as its owner's willingness to utilise it. Honoria did not look concerned as much as resigned. She began shouting at Anatoli to help Ivan up from the wreckage of the coffee table, but paused when the obnoxious music abruptly stopped. There was a short, sharp crackle of static and then the pilot's relieved voice sounded over the intercom system.

"We're here."

Still holding his champagne flute, Draco was unceremoniously shoved up onto the deck by Igor. Ivan had one arm looped around Anatoli's shoulders, staring daggers at Draco. Honoria stood beside Draco as the pilot maneuvered the cruiser alongside the hull of a larger ship. The ocean ought to have been a blanket of darkness, but it was ablaze with the twinkling lights from what looked like a stationary armada.

Honoria openly savoured the look on Draco's face. She plucked the flute from his unresisting grip and drained its contents.

"How many ships in the fleet?" he whispered.

"Sixteen, and that's not including the three hundred smaller vessels that sail with us. We have five ULCC super tankers laden with enough oil to make an Arabian sheikh have a seizure. Refining equipment. Two cargo vessels, one decommissioned battleship and the rest are ocean liners. This one, however…" she looked up affectionately at the enormous cruise liner they were about to board, "is Home Ship. This is also where you will work."

"Safe from the Infection," Draco said, staring at the other vessels in the distance—Alexander Amarov's floating city.

Honoria nodded. "Men have sold their own children for a ticket."

There was purposeful shouting coming from the cruise liner now. The smaller vessel's engine cut off. Igor and Anatoli began to carry crates from where they had been stored below deck. Draco recognised the box of data and research he'd been ordered to take from Grimmauld Place.

He turned to Honoria now. "That's the kind of company Amarov prefers to keep? I'd watch my back if I were him."

There was a flicker of... _something_ in her eyes. Not fear, not quite. "Malfoy, granted you are a dangerous man to keep, but you haven't met anyone quite like Alexander," she said, with a brittle smile.

"I've yet to meet anyone who still manages to surprise me," Draco said.

"That's not entirely true. Hermione surprised you, didn't she?" Honoria asked, as they walked across the gang plank that extended from the cruiser into the belly of the cruise liner.

If she intended to push for a response, the opportunity was lost in the commotion of boarding. They walked through dark, plush-carpeted corridors that smelled of fresh paint, brass polish, carpet shampoo and in some areas, cigarette smoke. Eventually, they stopped in a glitzy foyer with a curving, twin-branched staircase and an enormous chandelier. When there was enough light to actually see the interior, everything was awash in gold and plum, across embossed wall paper and velvets and brocade upholstery. It was eerily silent on the ship. Amarov seemed to like his space.

"This is where we part ways, Mr Malfoy," Honoria said to him. She was still holding his champagne flute. "Anatoli will see to your needs." She gave him a weary salute before disappearing at the top of the staircase.

Anatoli re-appeared. "Let me know if you want anything, weezard," he said. His Russian was soft, his voice oddly gentle for such a large man. 

Sometimes, the truth was the best joke you could tell. And Draco has always been a fan of dark humour. "I'd very much like a wand right now, Anatoli."

"Ya? So you can kill me and escape?" They were now walking down a carpeted corridor.

"Oh, I'd kill _everyone_ and then escape. Don't take it personally. It's my prerogative as a captive, isn't it?"

"Honoria said you came willingly."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it. So how about that wand?"

The bodyguard snorted. "Let us start with a place to sleep. Wash. Food. Tomorrow I will take you on a tour. You will meet the team and start work."

No response from Draco. Indeed, he seemed lost in thought. So Anatoli added. "Excuse me for saying, weezard. You look like death."

Draco gave him a look that was almost sad. "It's been an inordinately long day, Anatoli."

"They are all long days, these days. Please, weezard. Follow me."

Draco followed. The evening's earlier fight and flight gave way to bone-deep exhaustion. Perhaps it was an acceptance of current inevitabilities. Or perhaps it was just Anatoli's contagious quiescence. It occurred to Draco that if he blinked for too long, it was probably possible for him to fall asleep in mid-step. It didn't help that he'd had too much to drink with Hermione in the labs, right before the whole mess had begun.

One floor up was Draco's assigned stateroom. Keeping in theme with everything else Draco had seen that evening, the quarters were opulent and enormous. There was even a conservatory; modern and oddly minimalistic compared to the baroque splendour of the rest of the room. Desmond indicated a walk-in closet with a pile of folded clothing on a burgundy velvet settee. Most of the clothes were dark-coloured and therefore, agreeable.

"I will have a meal sent," Anatoli announced. He walked into the bathroom, ignoring the whirlpool tub that was recessed beside panoramic windows. Instead, he turned on the taps in the hexagonal, white marble shower instead. Steam billowed from the bathroom. The guard took note of the blood splatters across Draco's clothing. "My mother used to say, never go to bed before you wash away the toils of the day."

Draco stiffly sat on the edge of the bed and began unlacing his boots. His hands were stained with dried blood—Ronald Weasley's blood. He flexed his right hand momentarily, feeling the tightness of the caked blood, which fell off in flecks. "Not all toils wash off. When do I speak to Amarov?"

"You don't," Anatoli informed, and then sighed loudly enough to stir the drapes at the other end of the room. "Because Alexander Amarov has been...taken."

Draco paused with his left boot in his hand. "All that effort to drag me here and the man's been bloody kidnapped?"

"I'm afraid so. It is fortuitous that Miss Cloot has returned. Things have gone quite bad here."

Draco had a variety of questions (and sub-questions, with bullet point offshoots and possibly a diagram or two) but did not trust that he had the mental stamina to ask them correctly. It would all have to wait.

"Thank you, Anatoli."

Again, the same low nod, and then the big man left. And if Draco was not mistaken, the click and scrape he heard beyond the doors meant that the stateroom was a luxurious prison nonetheless. That was fine. Draco knew how to be in a luxurious prison. He'd had most of his life to practice.

He peeled off his clothing, dropping them piece by piece on the floor as he walked to the shower. More than just clothing was stripped away. The water pressure was strong. Draco hung his head low, letting the water cascade down his neck and back. He shut his eyes as he placed his forehead against the cool marble of the shower wall. He took in a long, shuddering breath, before drawing back his arm and ramming his fist into the marble.

The wall escaped unscathed, but the thin skin over his knuckles split open. There he remained, until he was sure that the blood stains—old and new—were gone; that the water no longer swirled red around his feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, funny story - the original version of this chapter featured an elderly butler, 'Desmond', who had been assigned to look after Draco's needs in the fleet. As can sometimes happen when you're writing a story over a period of years, you can occasionally forget about minor OCs you created for very specific reasons (e.g. butlering). They appear once and then poof! Gone. This was Desmond's sad fate. In this version, I have replaced Desmond with Anatoli, which makes much more sense because of the relationship that eventually develops between Draco and Anatoli as the story progresses.


	17. Light the Pyres

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scrimgeour seeks a deadline extension from the Americans. A funeral is held on Taransay Island for the lost members of Project Christmas. Harry exchanges angry words with Hermione, and Draco learns more about the eccentric Alexander Amarov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.

Richards and Scrimgeour stood before the fireplace in Scrimgeour's office. The Floo transmission came through on time despite some earlier problems establishing a connection on the heavily regulated US channels.

Presently, a man's face appeared. There were no salutations, merely instructions. "Secretary Beaumont will be with you momentarily. Please wait."

There were voices, the sound of a door closing and then a new face; a statuesque black woman with short, steel grey hair. Her eyes were a sharp gold, a perfect match for the brooch that adorned her cream, Chanel camellia suit.

"Rufus," she said, her feline gaze cutting directly to the Minister. "It's been a while."

Scrimgeour nodded in greeting. "Hello, Rebecca."

The manner of the exchange and the unique tension that sprung up between the pair caused Richards to give the Minister a curious, side-ways glance.

"I wish we were speaking under more pleasant circumstances," Beaumont continued, "but it seems that Project Christmas is in a bit of pickle."

Scrimgeour sighed. "An understatement, I assure you. You've received my brief and are aware of our situation?"

"You want to extend the deadline."

"Yes," Scrimgeour said. "Of all the many risks we considered when we commenced Project Christmas, sabotage from a competitor was—"

"Unforseen," Beaumont supplied. "There isn't a corner of the world that hasn't been touched by the Infection. It seems unthinkable that anyone would want to thwart the race for a cure. My Office receives daily messages from constituents, asking how close your team is to finding a cure. People have moved well beyond desperation." She looked at her agent now. "Richards, have you discovered anything more about this saboteur?"

"Not very much that is different to what we already knew," the Cowboy replied. "Honoria Cloot is a Hogwarts graduate who went on to Salem to specialise in Mediwizadry, graduating with Distinction. She's well-travelled and came with excellent professional references."

Beaumont slipped on a pair of frameless spectacles. She was handed a report by the assistant who had appeared earlier, and was now flipping through flagged pages. "No family?" She looked up. "It says here she's an orphan."

"Her parents were killed by Death Eaters in Voldemort's Second Coming when she was ten," Richards confirmed. "That unfortunate fact was to her advantage when we were assessing applications for the mission."

"So why does a promising young Mediwitch decide to blow up one of your specimens, destroy your equipment and directly or indirectly kill members of her own team?"

"That's just it, Madam Secretary," Richards said. "I don't think we were really _her_ team to begin with. She abducted Draco Malfoy and took our data with her. Therefore we suspect there is another team out there who wants to create the cure first."

"Abducted?" Rebecca Beaumont frowned. "Refresh my memory, gentleman. Weren't you extorting Draco Malfoy? The reasonable assumption is that this Honoria Cloot made him a better offer. I was under the impression given the details of the altercation between Malfoy and Harry Potter in particular, that Malfoy left willingly?"

Richards and Scrimgeour exchanged a look. It was Richards who answered his boss. "Actually, it was Harry Potter who raised an alternate theory with us. The Minister and I have interviewed the rest of the team and discussed this theory at length, of course."

"Oh?" Beaumont said. She removed her spectacles. "Enlighten me."

"We speculate that Draco Malfoy may have developed an attachment to our project, if not an allegiance to it."

"I see," said Beaumont. "If that's true, then the loss of Malfoy is a pity. Though I'm struggling to understand why it matters who develops a cure first, so long as it is developed at all."

"I suspect this competitor wants to sell it, or acquire some sort of political advantage," Scrimgeour said. "Rebecca, the Infection may have brought most of the civilised world to its knees, but there are some who would profit from it; who see it as an opportunity."

"Who?" she asked, sharply.

"We don't know," Richards admitted. He sounded immensely weary. "The fact is that all our usual intelligence networks are crippled. We have bits and pieces coming in. Rumours. Nothing conclusive."

Beaumont considered the idea. "I suppose it doesn't take a great leap of imagination to consider what an enterprising soul could do with a cure to the Infection. It's a heinous thought. I don't like it."

"Indeed," said Scrimgeour. "Nations would pay anything, barter anything. Borders could be re-drawn for the powers that hold the cure. The world is at a standstill right now. The clock has stopped and whoever has the cure has the means to re-start it again."

"Then, gentleman, it really is a race to create a cure that is available to all, not just to those few who can pay or trade for it," Beaumont said. "It saddens me to tell you, Rufus, that none of our own in-house teams are as close to success as Project Christmas. My people were quite literally in tears when we told them what happened."

Scrimgeour's voice was low and soft when he next spoke, "Then you will you give us the additional time we need? The December deadline is… unworkable."

"I'm afraid I cannot."

The Cowboy made to speak, but Scrimgeour got there first. "Why?"

"Because my hands are tied by my superiors. Because the West is being overrun." Her voice was heavy with regret. "Other countries have had some success in containing their outbreaks, but that feat continues to elude us in the developed world, despite our greater resources."

Scrimgeour contemplated this for a moment. "You are concerned about the balance of power shifting away from those who currently still have it. Or are _seen_ to have it."

Beaumont did not reply. She didn't need to.

Richards swore. "So you're going to wipe entire sections of Britain off the map to show you mean business? Madam Secretary, with all due respect, that's _fucked up._ "

"The outbreak passed beyond the limits of control three months ago, Agent Richards," Beaumont said, and her tone hard now. "The Infection strain currently running rampant across the United Kingdom is the oldest and is mutating far beyond what we've seen outside your borders. Minister Scrimgeour _knows_ this. This is why we've agreed for you to set up a base of operations in London, to be onsite to monitor the spread of the Infection. We can't waiver from that deadline and I hasten to add that the Wizarding Senate has the Minister's word and signature on the Project Christmas agreement. You deliver a cure or we deliver a localised solution." She was looking at Scrimgeour now. "Do you remember this?"

"Yes," Scrimgeour said.

"It's not a solution," Richards protested. "It's a death sentence for thousands of survivors! Millions, even when the fallout starts to take a toll!" He glared to the Minister. "Tell her!"

"We need more equipment," Scrimgeour said, tiredly. "Are you going to provide assistance in that area?

"Yes," said Beaumont. "And we will send you the terabytes of new data that our teams have accumulated. Hopefully that will assist in the rebuilding of your lab." Beaumont addressed a seething Agent Richards now. He was content to scowl at the floor, so she waited until he was looking at her again. "I have some good news if you want it, Richards," she said, more gently now.

The Cowboy's head rose. "Always."

"Our satellites have located Alexander Amarov for you. The good news is that he's not far from London. The bad news is that approximately one week ago, it seems he was kidnapped."

Richards was openly baffled. "Why? Money is useless right now."

"Nevertheless, he is still being held captive," Beaumont said. "Amarov controls a fleet of ships. He is in possession of vast reserves of oil that he has rather cleverly kept on the move and far away from the mainland. It might be the oil that these kidnappers are ransoming. There are organised criminal factions in Eastern Europe who feel he should share some of this wealth. All the money and gold in the world is not going to fuel a car or a plane. People readily go to war over fuel without the threat of zombies. It's certainly no better now."

"Madness," Scrimgeour muttered.

"It's a breakdown of all civil and martial law," Beaumont said. "This, as it happens, will make it much easier to use whatever force you feel is necessary to rescue Mr Amarov."

"Us?" Scrimgeour asked, incredulous. "You want me to lead a team of Muggle and medical staff on a mission to extract Amarov?"

Beaumont nodded. "I am not permitted to remove any more agents from their current posts here or overseas. The truth is, we have none to spare. Therefore, the Senate is giving you the authority to use lethal magical force, if required. It feels unseemly for me to state the obvious, but in these types of situations, wands do tend to prevail when no limits are placed as to their usage with respect to Muggles."

"No doubt, but we will be breaking a few dozen international Wizarding conventions if we aggress upon any Muggle association, wartime or not," Scrimgeour pointed out. "These rules are a thousand years old, Rebecca. They are there for a reason."

"Let me handle the paperwork," Beaumont said, with a sigh. "Just find Amarov. Obtain his assistance regarding this medicinal herb you say you need and resume work on the cure. Keep me posted if you require anything specific for the extraction. I have every faith in Agent Richard's tactical expertise. My Office will be in touch shortly to provide you with Amarov's coordinates. Now, if that is all, gentleman," she glanced down at her wristwatch, "I have already exceeded my Floo allowance." Beaumont gave them a small smile. "I wish you all the luck in the world."

The connection terminated.

Richards and the Minister stood in silence for a moment, until Scrimgeour spoke. He sounded immensely weary. "You wish to ask me something?"

The Cowboy grunted. "You and old Battleship Beaumont, eh?"

"It was a very long time ago. I trust 'Battleship Beaumont' has no idea her agents refer to her by that atrocious name?"

Richards managed a short, sharp laugh. "I think she probably started the nickname herself." He checked his watch as Scrimgeour went to fetch more Floo powder from the urn above the fireplace. "What time does the service start?" Richards asked.

"In five minutes. It's best we leave immediately."

The Cowboy was in agreement. Everyone else had already travelled to Taransay earlier. It was poor form to be late for a funeral.

* * *

There are many types of silences—uncomfortable ones, heavy ones, expectant ones—but the one that presided over the large group at Taransay Island was decidedly a noisy one.

The weather was foul. In the midst of the storm, no one spoke, which was probably just as well because they were unlikely to be heard above the howl of the wind. There were plenty of meaningful glances exchanged between Weasley family members and friends, looks of shared sympathy, sorrow, confusion and pain. And there was shock and anger too, despite Ron's Infection being common knowledge. The circumstances surrounding this death were as startling as they were tragic.

They waited first for the Cowboy to arrive. He came with the Minister. Both men walked up the hill, met halfway by Neville Longbottom who held a large, black umbrella over their heads. It didn't make much difference. The rain was coming down sideways. They joined the congregation under the wildly flapping black marquee. An outdoor congregation seemed an ill-conceived idea, given the storm, but there was to be funeral pyres in the old Wizarding custom adhered to by the Weasley family, and custom dictated that the parting words had to be spoken where the bodies would be consecrated to the elements.

Richards spoke briefly and kindly of Elizabeth Kent, whom he declared the most promising young agent he had ever had the pleasure of mentoring. Kent had been a dedicated supporter of the principles of the US Wizarding Senate and an exceptional agent. At the eulogy's conclusion, the floor was relinquishing to the Minister for Magic.

Rufus Scrimgeour frowned down at his clasped hand for a moment, before raising his head and addressing the congregation in a voice that was carried by Sonorous.

"Mira Khan, Jason Lam, Emily Finch, Elizabeth Kent and Ronald Weasley have left us," he said.

From within the congregation, supported by Ginny Weasley, Molly Weasley openly sobbed. Scrimgeour's eyes met Molly's and as difficult as it must have been, he held her gaze as he continued. "They are gone, but not forgotten. Never forgotten."

He turned his gaze to the Muggle refugees who had chosen to attend the funeral, addressing them now. "It is customary for Wizarding folk to speak of death in terms of the gifts the deceased have imparted unto us. The gifts of these brave young people have been many-fold—their love and friendship, their loyalty and their unique talents. They have helped to take us closer to a cure that will benefit millions. To our great sorrow, they have left us. But they have not died in vain. We will see to that by remembering them and by honouring their sacrifice."

The crowd parted under the marquee and Harry came forward, Hermione walking behind him. He suddenly stopped short. She turned him around and spoke to him. He nodded with his eyes closed. Presently, he straightened up, took in a long breath and continued onwards to where Scrimgeour and Richards waited to shelter him under the black umbrella. Fortunately, the wind had calmed down enough for Harry to address the congregation without great effort.

"Um, so I was asked to say something about Ron,"' Harry began, his hand scrubbing absently at the back of his messy head. Only I've never been good with words and this time I can't copy off Hermione." He looked at the crowd, _into_ the crowd and saw that more than a few were smiling at him in encouragement.

"What can I say about Ron to those of you who didn't know him? Well, there's loads, I guess. The first time I saw Ron, I felt more alone than I'd ever felt in my life. Even more alone than I'd been with my Muggle family. You see, shortly before I got my Hogwarts letter, I had the benefit of knowing exactly what I was—a small, slightly underfed, very ordinary eleven-year old boy with bad eyesight." He paused to push his spectacles higher up his nose.

"I had a bit of a rough time with the Muggle aunt and uncle," Harry said, looking at the ground. Molly Weasley gave a small sob at this point and Ginny tightened her hold around her mother's shoulder. "And when that happens, you find yourself feeling helpless and angry, and then you think maybe you're actually quite special, only no one can see it yet. You think maybe you'll become a big success one day and they'll look at you differently." Harry smiled wryly.

"And then…and then well I got my letter, didn't I?" He looked up at the congregation now. "I held it in my hand, read it out loud and it was undeniable proof that I was something 'other'. Not ordinary at all. Only it wasn't a huge relief. Quite frankly, it was terrifying. I no longer knew who or what I was.

"A short while later, I slid open that compartment door on the Hogwarts express and there was Ron. He didn't treat me like Harry Potter or a freak that didn't quite belong. He treated me like a kid who had walked into his compartment and who seemed just as nervous as he was. Ron may have come from one of the most loving and close families I have ever met, but that didn't mean he had it easy. It's hard coming from a prominent family in the fight. It's hard coming from a magical background and having two of your best friends come from the Muggle world.

"You see, we're all the heroes of our own stories, children especially. But Ron…well Ron was the hero's best friend from Day One, whether he wanted to be or not, whether I wanted him to be or not. He had no choice in the matter. He was the support crew. And that can be a hard pill for any child to swallow. But _he_ did. Ron did," Harry said, with a nod. "With loyalty and integrity. The great thing about Ron was that he was always himself. He was authentic.

"Now, I can't speak for Hermione." Harry looked at her as he said this. "But I haven't always been…myself. I still feel like I'm floundering around in someone else's shoes and they're always too big. I've never met someone who was so true to themselves even when that meant acting like a git on occasion." This garnered a few, quiet chuckles from the crowd.

"He was brave," said Harry. "Incredibly brave. The day he was bitten, he was very matter of fact about it. The first thing he said to me was, 'Sorry, mate.' OK, well maybe not the _first_ thing. There was quite a bit of swearing first. He was sorry because he thought he'd been taken out of the game too soon, and he'd previously promised that was something he would never do to me again. But this time… _this_ time, it was out of his control.

"So these are the things I have to say about Ron. As the Minister said, some of us speak of our departed loved ones in terms of the gifts they have given us. Ron's loyalty, honesty and steadfastness have been his gifts to me. But there are other, more personal things I want to tell you about. It's just that I can't find the vocabulary because they don't have much to do with words.

"I don't know how to tell you how much he meant to me and Hermione and to his family and friends, how much I'm going to miss him and how sorry I am that he will never get to see his first grey hairs, or his children, or grandkids, or have someone offer up their seat to him on the Knight Bus. If Ron were here now, he'd crack a joke about how shite I look when I cry and he'd smile and tell me that everything will work out." Harry was silent for a moment, he opened his mouth and then closed it, unsure of how to continue.

George Weasley assisted, in a voice that sounded like it'd been attacked with sandpaper. "Blimey. He was right, Harry—you do look awful when you cry."

Harry wiped his face on his shirtsleeve and laughed. "Shut up, George." He then turned to the Minister and quietly said. "That's it. I'm done."

Scrimgeour, assisted by Neville, stepped forward to light fires that would burn even in the rain. There were only three pyres, for they had not recovered the bodies of Mira and Jason.

It was over. The Minister gave instructions for everyone to return to the encampment for hot tea and sandwiches. Well wishes and condolences were given and received. Hermione stood to the side, waiting until Harry had embraced each of the Weasleys, before she stepped forward with an umbrella to walk with him down the hill.

"It was OK?" Harry asked.

She linked her arm through his as they made their way along slippery, wet grass. "What a thing to ask. Even some of the more hard-lined Muggle were looking a bit watery, and _not_ from the rain, mind you."

"I still think _you_ should have done the eulogy."

"No." Hermione shook her head. "It had to be you."

"I was clunky," he admitted.

"So was Ron," she said, with fondness. 

Harry was watching her closely now. "What now?"

Hermione pulled out a tissue from her coat pocket and blew her nose. The tissue was unfortunately soaked before it even reached her nose. "Now we get back to work."

He stopped. So did Hermione, who had walked on several steps ahead with the umbrella. Harry stood in the rain and stared at her. "How do you do it?" 

"Do what?"

"How do you not break like the rest of us? I shudder to think what it would take for you stop being…like this. It would have to be no less than the end of the world, I assume."

"Being like _what_?" she demanded.

He couldn't say it, but she read his expression and guessed. "Cold? Is that what you want to say? Unfeeling? Uncaring? Is that it?"

Harry scowled.

She marched up to him, sheltering them both under the umbrella once more. "Are you saying I don't feel this? That I don't feel like my heart's been ripped out of my chest ? Tell me I don't feel like that and I swear, Harry, I will slap you."

He looked away, unwilling to meet her eyes. "I don't know what I'm saying. I'm sorry."

"You should be," she spat. "I'm hurting just as you are! But we don't have the luxury of losing our momentum. Otherwise Mira, Jason, Emily, Agent Kent and Ron really would have died for nothing! Now, are we done here or was there anything else you wanted to say to me without the benefit of you putting it through some kind of internal filter first?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact. You haven't mentioned Malfoy once since Ron died."

Hermione blinked at the unexpected change in topic. She ran the back of her hand across her face, wiping away the rain. "That's because there is nothing to say."

"Really? We didn't just lose Emily, Kent and Ron the day Honoria betrayed us. We lost Malfoy as well. You seem keen to erase the last couple of months from your memory."

"The last couple of months where he waited for the perfect opportunity to leave?" Hermione pointed out. "And I don't recall the two of you being the best of friends."

"Despite my not liking him and despite everything that happened in the lab that night, I don't think he _wanted_ to leave. Padma doesn't think so either. Just ask her! What if—Hermione, where are you going?"

She had shoved the umbrella handle into his hands and was walking away. "I'm going to get dry!"

"Why won't you consider that he was forced to leave?" Harry shouted.

She whirled around, her eyes blazing, tendrils of wet hair clinging to the sides of her face. "Because I cannot handle any more hurt, Harry. Not one bit more. This—" she slapped her hand across her heart, the wet fabric of her black robes making a smacking noise "—is all used up. I am balancing on a razor's edge of control right now and I cannot allow myself to think that Malfoy was taken against his will because if he was…" her voice broke, "we don't have a way or the time to find him and get him back. I just…I can't. He's gone, Harry. Just leave it." She walked away.

Silently, Harry followed, unsettled to discover the depths of Hermione's focus on the mission and the fact that there actually was something that threatened to destroy her formidable focus.

And it had not been Ronald Weasley.

* * *

Draco slept for nine hours.

A minor miracle considering he was in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar, hostile people. Not that Anatoli could be called hostile. The guard was professional and seemingly unperturbed by the fact that his employer was the Floating Despot of the North Atlantic. Anatoli was a living, breathing case of pragmatism in action. 

Adaptability was what you needed. In an emergency, that was what delineated the survivors from the panicked, confused masses. And _that_ was what Draco liked about science. Science evolved and adapted when presented with new evidence; new situations that called for reassessment of old ways of thinking and doing.

He had come to science rather late, but when he arrived, it felt like a seat had been left just for him. Lucius, contrary to popular belief, had not been in a state of crippling fear and distrust of the Muggle world. No. Rather, he'd been in a state of wariness. He was not xenophobic in the definitive sense.

Oh, Lucius detested Muggles and the blood-pollution they brought with them, but he was not so myopic as to remain willfully ignorant of their overwhelming numbers, their progress and their achievements. To deny humanity's ingenuity was folly and Lucius had not been a foolish man. He determined that it was always a good idea to know as much as possible about one's enemies. And so the books (and papers and more papers and eventually a computer) arrived at Malfoy Manor. A tutor was located—a small, nervous mouse of a man whose job was to render Draco as knowledgeable as possible in all things Muggle. The tutoring was to be kept a secret, of course. It was a dangerous secret. Lucius understood that the purposeful exposure of his only child to the Muggle world would not be viewed kindly by their peers. Or by the Dark Lord, for that matter.

It had been a hard task not just because of that, but because Draco had initially refused the learning. For a young Draco, the world was black and white. It was Us and Them and Us was better, wasn't it? Us was pure and noble and worthy. Why did he need to know about Them? He'd stormed into his father's study one sticky summer afternoon, cross and irritable from having to sit in the library with his tutor to learn about the wretched Muggles.

"Why do I have spies in the Ministry?' Lucius had countered, bluntly.

Draco had been twelve at the time. He'd looked at his father—imposing, intent and very serious. The answer had long since been drilled into his head.

_Scientia potentia est._

Knowledge is power. All of it, even the stuff you didn't think worthy of consideration. Not all knowledge ranked equally in terms of utility, of course, but that didn't mean it was useless. Science was useful. And what made Draco even more conflicted once he'd accepted the lessons was that he found science nothing short of mesmerising. It wasn't a complete surprise; he had already proven to be a natural scholar, but what he had went beyond mere aptitude. It was an affinity.

One morning, his tutor brought _On the Origin of Species_ for Draco to read and if he'd harboured a mild infatuation with Muggle science before then, it quickly progressed to a full-blown romance. He came to realise that it wasn't about the perceived quality of your blood that mattered. Nor was it about strength, although that trait would see you see well through a disaster. It wasn't about the survival of the fittest, it was always about _adaptability_. When he realised this, he began to recognise that prized trait—the antithesis of the Pureblood philosophy—everywhere he looked. And to his shock and disgust, he recognised it most of all in the Muggleborns and mixed-bloods that walked the halls of Hogwarts.

And he despised them even more for it.

Draco was awake a good minute before he opened his eyes. Anatoli had come into the dark room and flicked a switch, silently retracting the shades from the spotless, curving windows. Sharp, clean sunlight filled the room. Outside, the ocean was calm. The gaurd stood at the foot of the bed, holding a silver tray laden with food. At the doorway were two more guards, presumably to lend Anatoli assistance if Draco proved to be uncooperative. 

"Good morning, weezard," Anatoli said, in English. He sat the tray down on a bedside table and then stood with his arms clasped behind his back. "Your breakfast."

Draco sat up against the padded leather headboard. He was naked under the covers. As the crisp, white sheet slipped down to his stomach, Anatoli's gaze was drawn to the latticework of scars across Draco's abdomen. There it was—damnable pity mingling with curiosity. Most people reacted similarly.

Except Granger, of course. She excelled at being the irritating exception. Nothing was simple about that frustrating female, not since they'd been children. When she had seen his scars for the first time, there was the usual pity and curiosity, but there was also fascination that bordered on disturbing. What she knew about him, which wasn't very much to begin with, was old and out of date. As such, he probably just intrigued her.

_It's a powerful curiosity you have, Granger..._

"Weezard." Anatoli interrupted his thoughts. He was holding out a dressing gown in a hand the size of a tea kettle.

Draco accepted it and then went to the bathroom. There, he splashed water on his face and assessed his reflection. His hair had grown considerably since his release from prison, almost as if in celebration from being free from automated grooming spells. After six years of having it very closely cropped, it was odd seeing his fringe reach his eyes now. He needed a shave, but not surprisingly, a razor was not to be found on the marble bathroom counter or in the cabinets and drawers below. The knuckles of his left hand were a swollen mess, but they would heal. Nude, he walked to the closet. A quick rifle through the drawers of a cabinet revealed underwear—dark, like the rest of the available clothing.

He spoke to Anatoli in Russian as he dressed. "So what's on the agenda today?"

"After breakfast, I will take you to the research labs. There, you will meet your new team."

Draco selected a pair of charcoal trousers in his size, pulling them on. "Will Honoria be joining us?"

"Miss Cloot is occupied this morning with plans to recover Mr Amarov from his kidnappers."

"What is the ransom?"

"What they all want - oil."

"The one thing that moves Muggle civilisation," Draco noted, "literally.

A long-sleeved cotton t-shirt came next, and then a cable-knit jumper in black. It was sunny outside, but they were on the ocean in autumn. It was best to dress warmly. The shoe rack produced two pairs of lace-up, leather loafers, though only one was in his size. A pair of olive green hiking boots was also in his size, but he settled for leather ankle boots instead, pulling them on over black socks.

"And Miss Cloot is going to give up this fuel in return for Amarov's safe return?" Draco asked, as he shut the closet door behind him.

"No."

The quickness of Anatoli's response garnered Draco's curiosity. "No?"

"Alexander has a plan to guard against kidnapping and attack."

"What plan?"

Anatoli hesitated. "It's better if one of the research team explains the details to you. It is...very complicated."

Draco folded his arms. "I think I'll cope. Please explain."

The guard sighed. "Alexander has something fixed into his body that can tell if he is killed, hurt or taken too far away from the fleet. The machine in his chest will send a signal for explosives in the fleet to explode."

It was properly horrific, of course, and a testament to Alexander Amarov's sense of self-importance that he would risk the lives of everyone in his fleet in such a way. But Draco was impressed, nevertheless.

"So Amarov has a biofeedback mechanism surgically embedded inside him which is designed to trigger a series of detonations in the fleet if he's taken or hurt. If it's set to go off outside a set perimeter that implies he can't be too far away from the fleet and the fleet cannot leave without him?"

"That is what I just said," said Anatoli, testily.

"Where are the explosives? Which vessels have been rigged?"

"No one knows for sure but we think it's most of the larger tankers. The bombs will explode and the oil and lives will be lost."

"So what happens if he falls dead from a heart attack? Draco asked. "What, then?"

Anatoli's expression indicated that this was by no means an unconsidered risk. He said nothing.

From the doorway, Draco could feel the other guards' rapt attention, or maybe a better word was _tension_. This was clearly an unhappy topic. 

"A billionaire megalomaniac who is treated like the sodding last emperor." Draco ran a hand through his hair. "What else? A gladiatorial arena?"

There was something in Anatoli's expression that made Draco stop and stare at him. "You _can't_ be serious?"


	18. Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco sees the infamous Pit for the first time, and comes face to face with an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have quite a soft spot for Renauld. He reminds me of a much more evil 'Associate Bob' from Demolition Man.

His breakfast was cold by the time he got to it, but lately, Draco tended to treat meals as more of re-fueling exercise rather than something to consciously savour. Admittedly, there was good sourdough, toasted lightly, and black coffee which was unfortunately sweetened. He glanced around the tray for milk.

"If you're looking for the cream, we have none at the moment," said Anatoli. 

Draco tore a slice of bread in half. "No dairy cows in the fleet that has everything?"

"No dairy cows," Anatoli confirmed. "Managing livestock is difficult. Plenty of chickens, though," he added, inclining his head to the scrambled eggs.

As the meal was consumed, Anatoli continued to hover beside him. Draco drank the remainder of the coffee and set down the empty cup back on the tray. To say he felt restored was putting it mildly.

"Thank you, Anatoli. That was much needed."

"When was the last time you ate?"

Draco thought back.

Brandy and coffee in a chipped mug. That had been the last thing he'd consumed at Grimmauld Place. If he closed his eyes, he could still smell the brandy, feel the cool weight of the mug and…Hermione Granger leaning over him as she stared at the computer screen, her long hair escaping from a twelve-hour old ponytail, stray curls occasionally brushing against his face as she frowned down at outputs from their Re-Gen effects modelling. She was not a creature of large habits, at least beyond her formidable work ethic, but she had many small ones—worrying her lower lip with her teeth, tapping her nail-bitten index finger against her desk or keyboard when she concentrated, and the way she absolutely _beamed_ like she was lit from within on the rare occasions she had good news to report. Her ability to be that excited could make a person feel rather old and jaded.

"Weezard? Anatoli prodded.

"A while back," Draco belatedly replied.

He dusted crumbs off his trousers and stood up. Now that he was rested and fed, it was time to run the numbers, so to speak. It was an old habit acquired from seven years of attending a boarding school full of dark corners where ninety-five percent of the student population wanted to throw you down the stairs. When you grew up surrounded by that knowledge, you worked out where the exits were real quick. Anatoli might come across like a gentle giant, but there was probably a very good reason why he had been a part of Honoria's initial entourage. At full height, Draco was as tall as the man, though nowhere near as wide. But what Draco lacked in bulk, he probably made up for in speed. Hmm...

Draco gave Anatoli a predatory, assessing glance. _I reckon I could take you._

To Draco's amusement, Anatoli returned the stare with a subtle raised eyebrow. _Try it_.

* * *

After his meal, Draco was escorted from his quarters, ostensibly on a tour of the fleet's scientific facilities located elsewhere on the same vessel.

It was a big ship. All in all, it took twenty minutes to walk to the opposite end, two floors down. They passed through the lavish foyer from the night before, where Draco half expected to see Honoria again. She did not make an appearance this time, but there were plenty of other people; some in starched white uniforms, some in plain clothing. They all seemed very busy. Of other fellow 'passengers', there was no sign, but Anatoli confirmed that the home ship did have other residents.

Eventually, Draco was shown inside a laboratory that was three times the size of the one he'd been working in for Project Christmas. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the sterile whiteness of the place. Amarov's setup didn't possess the mismatched, patch-and-make-do quality of the Grimmauld Place operation. But then Project Christmas wasn't staffed by a team of scientists who looked like they were about to pass out from fear.

There were over a dozen of them, standing like statues in their white lab coats. A member of the group stepped forward. There was hesitation on his face, but he was not nervous.

" _Dobreyah ootrah_ ," Draco said to the man, who was small, wiry and completely bald. "I'm Draco Malfoy."

The man held out a hand to shake. Draco took it, glancing down at their joined hands. He noted the fading bruises around the man's wrist and the characteristic chaffing calluses that came from handcuffing. None of this was surprising, unfortunately.

"We were told you were coming," the scientist said. He inclined his head to a stainless steel bench where notes and data from Project Christmas had been neatly laid out and ostensibly inspected. "I am Professor Vadim Belikov. You can use English, Mr Malfoy. We all speak it in the labs."

"You are in charge of this operation?"

Belikov shrugged. "I am the most senior scientist and the first to be enlisted, shall we say?" His smile was wry. "And occasionally, I speak for the others."

Draco surveyed the pale, stricken faces in the room. He saw the shaky stares and he saw the ones who didn't stare at all; their gazes firmly affixed to the floor. He saw the way the three women in the room were nearly obscured from view, protectively herded to the back of the laboratory by their male colleagues. The group was painfully silent and still, almost as if audible breath could potentially single them out for attention.

Anatoli watched on from his favourite haunt—the doorway—looking tellingly unhappy and uncomfortable. Draco felt the familiar tingle run through the tops of his hands, dancing across the metacarpals, culminating in a heated vibration in his fingertips. He delicately ran the pads of his thumbs over the whorls of his fingertips. He could feel his magic pool around him, fueled by his darker emotions. But there was no conduit to unleash it. No wand. No shower wall to assault.

He'd experienced this before, of course. All Azkaban prisoners did. This was what it felt like to be stripped of your magic for too long. After the initial adrenaline of capture wore off, it came first as an itch, then a constriction that made you want to claw your way out of your own skin. All that magic and no way to expend it. You couldn't die from it, but on bad nights, you _wished_ you could. Draco felt it now. After the past few weeks of carefully monitored wand usage (invariably Granger's) he felt its unanticipated absence acutely. He breathed in slowly and flexed the fingers of his left hand, aware of Belikov's speculating stare.

"You are a wizard as well as a scientist," the Professor noted. "They didn't tell us that."

"You don't need to be afraid," Draco answered, perhaps with too much grit in his voice. He was still trying to quell the itch for a wand.

To Draco's surprise, Belikov shook his head. "No, young man. I am not afraid of you. I am afraid _for_ you."

"Why?"

In response, Belikov glanced down at his wristwatch and then at Anatoli, switching back to Russian for the guard's benefit. "If you take our guest there now, he can see for himself."

Anatoli gave the scientist a look of disbelief. "And you think showing him the Pit is going to encourage him to work with you?"

Belikov snorted. "He will work for the same reason you work. For the same reason we are all here." Belikov turned his attention back to Draco. "Do you have family with you? Family that Amarov has threatened to feed to the wolves if you decline to help us with the cure? "

Draco responded with another question. "Is that why you're here? In exchange for your family's safety?"

"I have two grand-daughters, Mr Malfoy. They are all that is left of my family." Belikov smiled sadly. "What would you do to keep safe that which is most precious to you?"

There was a pregnant pause.

"Fine, I will take him," Anatoli announced, sounding surly.

Belikov nodded. "Be aware that Honoria will probably be angry that you're showing our guest the fleet's less civilised diversions so soon after he's arrived."

The guard shrugged. "If Amarov returns, he'll make the weezard see it sooner or later, no?"

"You mean _when_ Amarov returns," Belikov corrected. "The man has nine lives."

Anatoli snorted. "If he does come back, it won't be from the lack of my praying that the lives are all used up."

Draco looked from the Professor to the guard, intrigued by what was revealed from their banter. "I get the distinct feeling none of you are overly fond of your resident sociopathic billionaire."

Belikov appeared to be choosing his words wisely. "Amarov has many friends here from his former life; friends he has acquired from his travels and his business dealings. They are drawn to him because like knows like, and _like him_ , they are spoilt, cruel and sadistic. Even with the endemic corruption they thrived in before the plague took hold, there were still some rules that even the wealthy had to follow."

"But now there are no rules," Draco surmised.

"On the contrary, Mr Malfoy. There are many rules that Alexander Amarov expects us to abide by. He thinks of himself as our Leviathan. To his companions, he is their Prince and they are his courtiers. He rules with impunity here."

There really was nothing else for it. And considering that it was apparently something Honoria _didn't_ want him to see… Draco walked up to Anatoli. "Alright, take me to this Pit."

* * *

This required a brisk boat ride and a blindfold.

Draco saw nothing of the ocean except the slivers of sunlight that slipped through under the scarf Anatoli had tied around his head, but he could feel the dip and the lurch of the smaller vessel on the water and he could smell the salt in the wind. There were birds, which meant they were not far from land. Anatoli spoke briefly with the skipper of what was presumably an intra-fleet transport vessel.

There were other passengers aboard, though no one spoke much and when they did, the banter was stiff. No doubt the presence of a blindfolded man was a bit of a mood killer. The skipper attempted to fill in the silence. He talked about the weather, the state of the fleet's supplies, the perpetual fresh milk shortage and how one of the other vessels had recently seen an outbreak of head lice.

It was a short ride to their destination vessel. The other passengers disembarked first and then Draco felt Anatoli grab him by the back of his shirt and push him forward. Once they had boarded, the blindfold was taken away.

Draco immediately noted the intense humidity, the staleness of the air and the metal grating under his feet—no muffling, plush carpet here. There was the metallic creak and groan of what was presumably a cargo vessel or a tanker. It was dark in the ship's corridor with only sickly amber pilot lights dotted above the narrow walkways. Other men milled past, their shadowed faces grim.

"What is this?"

"The games," Anatoli said.

Draco raised both eyebrows, waiting for him to elaborate. Even without Anatoli's hesitant explanation, the growing stench was explanation enough.

Zombies—nearby and _lots_ of them.

And then they entered what had to be the central hub of the ship. There were four levels arranged around a square arena. Levels two to four consisted mostly of men, none of whom looked thrilled to be there. Many were dressed in work gear; grease-stained overalls, steel-capped work boots, rolled-up sleeves and the occasional hard hat. Draco surmised that some sort of fleet-wide notice had been issued and the men had come to attend the games. Some leaned over the metal railings, waiting. The rest were stony-faced, looking down at red tickets in their hands, smoking and checking their watches.

The lowest level was roughly five meters from the arena floor and the twenty or so spectators on that level were the most colourful and boisterous. They had to be Amarov's friends, judging from their attire, conduct and the fact this was the only level to have lingerie-clad servers bearing food and drink on trays. The women looked riddled with anxiety, nervous smiles stretched across heavily made-up faces.

Anatoli and Draco entered at the fourth level, amidst openly hostile stares. They took a metal staircase down to the first level and were greeted by an enormous man, perspiring profusely in a suit and a white silk cravat.

"The Fatman," Anatoli whispered in Russian. "Although call him that to his face and you're be a braver man than I. He is Louis Renauld, the fleet's games master. Do not cross him."

"Who do we have here?" exclaimed Renauld. "Honoria mentioned to me that she'd brought one of the British scientists back with her from her mission in London. Does she know you've taken him to the games today?" The man's English was very heavily French-accented and Draco could tell Anatoli was struggling to understand him.

"Not yet," Draco spoke for Anatoli, "but I have a feeling word travels fast in the fleet."

Renauld smiled. "That it does, especially if I have anything to say about it." He beckoned to one of the serving girls. "Go and fetch Honoria. Tell her that our new guest is with us at the Pit." Renauld proceeded to untie his cravat and used it mop the sweat from his face. When that wasn't enough to cool him down, he extracted a sandalwood hand fan from inside his jacket, opened it with a sharp snap and proceeded to vigorously fan himself. "My, my. They don't make all wizards like you, do they?" Renauld said to Draco, his cataloguing gaze was one of frank appreciation.

"I imagine they don't make all Muggles like you, either," Draco replied. "Or they'd have to double the bus fares."

Anatoli groaned, but Renauld merely snorted. "You're highborn aren't you? I can smell the entitlement. Alexander once told me that some of your kind can trace back their magical lineage across ten generations. What is the word you use? There is a term for it, but I cannot now remember…" Renauld's fanning became more vigorous as he pondered.

Draco assisted, if for no other reason than to eliminate the compulsion to take the annoying fan away from the Frenchman and assault him with it. "Pureblood."

"Yes! _Pureblood_. At any given time, we keep about a thousand Magical people on this ship and we've managed to learn quite a bit about your kind. You are a secretive bunch, but it is astounding how forthcoming you can be when we ask the right questions, _oui_? Some of your brethren told me about a rather nasty chap by the name of Voldemort. He was apparently obsessed with blood purity. Did you know him personally?"

Draco shrugged. "Rings a bell."

All trace of pleasantness vanished from Renauld's perspiring face. "Of course it rings a fucking bell, my handsome friend. He was a genocidal war criminal, but he wasn't a Pureblood, was he?"

The question was rhetorical, so Draco did not bother responding.

"And yet he was still one of your most powerful and feared wizards," Renauld continued. "Explain this to me."

"The alleged superiority of pure magical blood is an _idea_ , Mr Renauld. Some find it a very motivating idea, but it has no basis in reality, in science."

Renauld's eyes were fever-bright. This was clearly a topic that fascinated him. "And you believe your magic can be explained by science?"

Floodlights switched on. Draco's gaze flickered to the arena floor. There was no mistaking the debris and stains on the ground, or the putrefying remains that were splattered across the walls.

"So many questions flowing in one direction. Am I not permitted a few of my own?" Draco asked.

"No my dear boy, you are not. On this, the games ship, I decide whether you live or die. But given that you so brighten up these dreary confines, I implore you to behave yourself. Don't make me ask one of my men to carve the Russian word for 'humility' into your pretty face."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "It's a long word. I'd be surprised if your thugs can spell it."

"The game start now," Anatoli blurted, likely in an attempt to diffuse Renauld's rising anger.

Renauld was still staring beadily at Draco as he beckoned a serving girl forward and took a drink from her tray. "You speak of ideas that galvanize. Well, this fleet is one such idea. It is Alexander's idea and a powerful one at that. The occasional games are merely a small part of it. You're in for quite a show today." He raised his drink. "Enjoy."

A loud buzzer sounded.

Anatoli pushed Draco closer to the railing. From that vantage point, they could see two hatches on opposite sides of the circular arena. One hatch swung open following a long, electric buzz that vibrated through the metal railings. A man stepped into the arena, dressed in the ragged remains of black wizarding robes. His forearm shielded his eyes from the bright floodlights above.

Presently, the arm came down and Draco gripped the railing before him with white knuckled fingers.

 _Blaise Zabini_. And he was carrying what appeared to be a small child—a little boy.

" _Chyort voz'mi_ ," Anatoli said. "They bring children this time!"

Three levels of spectators erupted into protest. Men shouted and cursed, waving their arms and hurling tickets down into the arena. Blaise stood in the middle of this maelstrom, either resolute or terrified, or perhaps both. Red tickets rained down around him.

Draco turned to see how the inner circle was reacting. They looked apprehensive at the crowd's obvious disapproval, but their mood lifted when Renauld was handed a palm-held microphone on a long cord. He sauntered to the railing and glared at the upper three levels. The intercom system crackled once, before a blast of feedback caused the spectators to quieten.

"May I remind you that you are all here because of the generosity of Alexander Amarov?" Renauld spoke in flawless Russian, and his drawling, low voice seemed to crawl through the ship. "Yes or no?"

Silence.

" _Yes!_ " he answered for them, and there was a smile in voice. "You have been delivered to safety from the plague and the ungodly monsters that walk the streets of our cities. You and your families are fed and clothed. When you are sick, our doctors attend to you. Your women and children are safe here. Yes or no?" he asked, and this time, there was no mistaking the anger in that question.

Silence.

" _Yes_!" he said again, "and all because of Alexander Amarov! If any of you wish to decline my very good friend's generosity, let that man or woman step forward. Come now, I want to see you. Let us all see you."

Draco looked from the Renauld to the crowd, noting that not a single person among them moved.

"Your berth here in this fleet is not free, comrades. You pay for your passage, as do I. That price is that we work to keep this city afloat and that we follow the rules, for a city without rules will soon descend into anarchy. Yes or no?"

This time there was an answer from the crowd. It wasn't loud, but there was a general muttering of agreement.

"Good," Renauld finished. He set his corpulent body upon a chair and tossed the microphone back to a serving girl in exchange for his drink. "Resume the games," he ordered, taking a long, noisy slurp. He stared at Draco as he spoke, a smirk on his face. "The common folk need their games."

Another long buzz sounded and the second hatch opened. Draco watched as Blaise adopted a fighting stance, one arm wrapped protectively around the child. He looked up at the crowd and held up his other arm. The expression on his face was easy enough to read.

 _Please_.

"He cannot bring weapons into the arena with him," Anatoli whispered to Draco. "It is up to the crowd to give him what he needs."

"Then give him your gun!" Draco hissed.

Anatoli shook his head. "No guns. Amarov's Rules."

Three steel rods were tossed to the ground with a loud clang. Someone had been industrious enough to sharpen them into precise points. Additionally, there was a length of chain, a rusted saw, two crow bars and a baseball bat.

"This is murder. You cannot do this."

The guard snorted. "What do you want _me_ to do, weezard?"

Calm yourselves, gentleman," said Renauld, who was observing Draco's agitation with relish. "This particular champion has been in the Pit before and he's survived."

"Apparently not with a child to protect?" 

Renauld shrugged. "Despite our instructions, he finished the monsters off too quickly last time. It made for a rather dull show, I'm afraid. Maybe his son will add a bit of interest to the spectacle, no?"

Draco took a step towards Renauld. "Stop this now or I will refuse to work for Amarov."

"Threaten me again, young man, and I'll make sure Honoria disposes of your friends in London, one by one. I believe that was the deal she made with you—your cooperation or the certain death of your friends? And after we're done with them, I'll cut your legs off and use it for feed. We don't need your legs, just your head."

Draco felt Anatoli's hand on his arm. "This is _not_ the way," Anatoli said into his ear.

The noise of the crowd picked up and Draco reluctantly returned to the railing to look.

Three zombies had shuffled out into the Pit. They were slow and extremely decomposed, with one soon collapsing under what appeared to be a broken leg, splintered bone protruding just above its thigh. The other two, both females, continued towards Blaise, arms outstretched, mouths agape. Blaise's son clung to this father like a baby koala, face buried tightly against Blaise's neck. Of the offered weapons, Draco noted that Blaise has chosen one of the steel pikes—a weapon that afforded the maximum damage at maximum reach.

Blaise didn't hesitate. In a double handed grip, he raised the pike high above his head and brought it down right on top of the nearest zombie's skull. It pierced the creature's cranium and exited just below its chin. There wasn't even a gurgle. With its brain badly damaged, it fell over. The second zombie had nearly reached him by now. Blaise picked up the baseball bat beside his feet and swung it in a wide arc. It smashed into the side of the zombie's head with a dull, wet thud. The thing howled, scrabbling at the spot where its eye used to be. The eyeball had popped out, still dangling from the mangled eye socket by the optic nerve. It keeled over to the ground, rolling around in disorientation. Blaise stepped away from it, swaying slightly on his feet.

" _Finish it_ ," Draco said under his breath.

"They don't feed the prisoners well," Anatoli commented. "Look at him. He's weak."

But then Blaise appeared to refocus. He stood over the creature and brought the baseball bat down on its head over and over until it was a dark, gelatinous mess. And then he sat down heavily on the ground, looking dazed. He peeled his son from him to inspect the boy, wiping away blood splatter from the boy's arms using the hem of his robes.

A third buzz and the second hatch opened again. Four more zombies entered the arena; fresher this time. They moved with greater purpose. Blaise scrambled back on his feet.

Draco turned to glare at Anatoli, who had been expecting the unspoken question. "Three rounds," the guard clarified. "That's the rules."

"He's not likely to survive the _second_ bloody round!"

"That's the point, weezard. This champion's been in the Pit three times before. He's been winning for too long."

"And what happens if he survives this and the next round?"

The guard stared at him. "He won't."

Draco looked down into the arena again to check on Blaise's progress. Zabini had now driven the second steel pike into one of the new zombies, but it was lodged in the creature's neck, which merely slowed it down. The crowd shouted advice and suggestions in about a dozen different languages. Blaise was clearly tiring. Draco could see it in the sloppy swing of his bat, in the trembling of his arm and the way his feet were starting to drag. He was running on empty.

To make matters worse, Blaise's son was beginning to lose his hold around his father neck, no doubt because of the blood and sweat that liberally covered his father.

Two of the zombies advanced, one managing to grab a portion of Blaise's long robes. Blaise's son screamed and began kicking out at the snarling creature.

Draco leaned over the railing, examining the drop. He turned back to Anatoli and had to grab the guard by the front of his shirt to pry Anatoli's attention away from what was happening in the arena.

"These rules," Draco said, shouting over the cacophony of the crowd. "A champion can only use what is given to them by the crowd, correct?"

Anatoli nodded.

"But no guns?"

"No guns. Nothing automatic, no fire power, just…. _no, you cannot be serious_!"

"Would it be against the rules?"

"Of course!" said Anatoli, but then contradicted himself. "But man is _not_ gun." He was stunned enough to momentarily switch to English. He blinked at Draco. "So maybe is not against rules?"

"Man is not gun," Draco repeated, nodding. "Has anyone tried it before?"

" _Nyet_! No one is so crazy!"

"The purpose of the game is to entertain and to serve as a reminder of our good fortune, isn't it? These friends of Amarov want a good show, and they think that's what the fleet needs, yes? _Amarov's Rules_."

Anatoli merely blinked. "Weezard, you are going to _die_."

Draco shook his head. "No, I'm just going to give them a show."

And then Anatoli watched with sheer incredulity as Draco climbed over the railing and dropped soundlessly onto his haunches, inside the Pit.


	19. Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Henry Miles Greengrass Zabini. Alec Mercer provides an explanation for the wizarding 'smart-zombies'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my other favourite chapters. Not sure why. Just is.

The length of chain was the nearest weapon.

Draco bent down to scoop it up without stopping in his advance towards Blaise. As he walked, he slammed the chain around the neck of the first zombie that came staggering towards him. It was fresh, and quicker than the rotting corpses from Round One. The force of the wrapping blow sent the zombie careening backwards into a wall. The back of its skull smashed and it slumped to the ground, leaving a dark red streak against the wall. The crowd erupted into deafening cheers and whistles.

_One down, three to go._

Blaise had successfully extricated his steel pike from the throat of one zombie and had skewered another through its eye-socket. The thing had been female, at one point. It was still wearing a stained, pink terry-toweling bath robe and had three curlers clinging to the matted remains of its hair. Helpfully, it managed to collide into the zombie that had been pulling on Blaise's robes. Almost in slow motion, both zombies went over, one on top of the other with the exposed end of the steel pike getting caught in the metal grating on the floor. The creatures were effectively pinned in place. They moaned and rocked from side to side, but were as coordinated as overturned turtles.

Draco swiftly picked up the baseball bat and made short, quick work of the creatures' heads. About a dozen blows in total did the trick. He was panting from the exertion by the time it was over.

" _Hello_ ," Blaise said to him, dark eyes wide with confusion, relief, wonder. The bleakness left his gaze. Now, there was calculation.

 _Slytherins_ , thought Draco, with approval.

Blaise glances over Draco's shoulder, inclining his head to the remaining member of Round Two. This specimen had been a soldier, judging from the military fatigues. The main problem presented itself in the form of a helmet, which the creature still had strapped on to its head.

Oh, well. So much for handy, blunt force trauma.

"Here it comes!" Blaise warned. They only had the baseball bat between them. Draco spotted one of the crow bars on the ground. He snatched it up and then threw it to Blaise.

The zombie charged in a straight line, predictably going for the larger and more obvious target of Blaise and his son. Draco swung the bat directly into the creature's knees with such force that the zombie's legs folded inwards at a right angle. It hit the ground, its helmeted head bouncing against the metal grating. Blaise quickly jammed the crowbar into the creature's face, but because he was still holding his son, it was only a one-handed thrust and so the crowbar did not penetrate all the way through the brain. With the crowbar sticking out of its head, the creature thrashed and snarled. Blaise attempted to hold it down by standing on its chest.

Draco went across to the opposite end of the arena to unwind the chain from around the neck of the first zombie. He then looped it around the neck of the former soldier that Blaise was standing on. Draco pulled hard on the chain. The zombie's neck broke with a loud crack and the crowd roared with approval.

Heedless of the stinking muck and gore that littered the ground, Blaise sank to the floor, cross-legged and visibly shaking. His son no longer hid his face in the crook of his father's neck. The little boy was wholly occupied staring up at Draco.

"Get on your feet," Draco ordered.

An exhausted Blaise did not appear to hear him. The little boy attempted to shake his father back to attention. "Daddy, get up!"

Blaise's head lifted. He blinked, as if only just noticing Draco. "Malfoy, how are you here?"

"Because of a serious lapse in judgement, apparently." Draco gave him his hand. It was testament to how fatigued Blaise was that even with Draco's assistance, Blaise still had trouble getting to his feet while bearing the weight of the boy.

"You need to put the child down."

Blaise shook his head. "I am not abandoning my son."

Draco closed the distance between them, hauling Blaise to him until they were face to face. The little boy was sandwiched between them, watching the exchange with wide-eyes.

"I only have time to say this once, so listen well," Draco hissed. "Do anything else other than what I tell you to do, and I swear to you I will walk out of here without hesitation. Amarov and his people need something only I have and they are not about to let me die in here with you. If you want to leave this arena with your insides still on the inside, _I suggest you pay fucking attention_."

" _Language_ ," Blaise said, with a glare.

Draco stared at his old friend. He understood that Blaise was probably functioning on his last reserves, both physically and mentally, and so he tried a different tack. "Our lives will depend on us working together," Draco said, more gently. "You cannot help me to keep you alive if you're carrying your son. We will put the boy in a corner and we will defend that corner. You take the left, I'll take the right. One of us falls, that's it. No backup, no second chances."

"I thought you said they wouldn't let you die?"

"Do you see them storming the arena right this moment to come and get me?" Draco asked, with increasing annoyance.

"No."

"They may do at any moment, so why don't you make the best use of me while I'm here?"

Blaise hands were shaking as they pulled his son closer to him. "Malfoy, if anything happens to him…"

"If anything happens to him, you can still live, even if you may not want to. If you die, on the other hand, he's dead by default. Run the numbers Zabini. That was always your talent."

Slowly, but surely, Blaise release his death grip over his son. He set the boy on the ground and pushed him back into a corner.

The buzzer sounded again. It seemed to be louder and longer this time, but that was probably because the spectators had gone silent. It was quiet enough for Draco to hear both his and Blaise's laboured breathing. They stood, makeshift weapons held tightly in their hands, feet braced apart.

"These will be different from the ones before," Blaise said.

"How so?"

Blaise gave him a look of dread. "They were like us."

 _Wizarding zombies_. The ones that were likely also responsible for cutting into Filch's body at Hogwarts. Capable of planning, coordinating, _thinking_. It made sense that Renauld would save the best—and worst—for last.

From somewhere on the fourth floor, a shouted litany could be heard, "May the three enfold you, Father, Son and Holy Spirit! Hold you safe and strong! May the Three watch over you, Father, Son and Holy Spirit! Still your heart and calm all fear!"

Someone else yelled out. "You're wasting your time! These are a godless people!"

"Over here!" shouted another voice from the second floor. Draco and Blaise glanced up, squinting against the floodlights. They saw a female spectator leaning over the railing. She threw down a long bundle at Draco's feet. "We've just had this sent from _The Cassiopeia_! More useful right now than prayers!"

Draco dropped the baseball bat and unwrapped the bundle. There were more than a few cheers and whistles when he pulled out a wicked-looking scythe, followed by a sheathed katana. He looked up at the woman and nodded his thanks.

"Which one?" he asked Blaise, holding both weapons aloft.

Blaise pointed to the katana. "The sword. I have no idea what that other thing is."

"Give the boy your crowbar," Draco instructed, after handing Blaise the katana.

"He's only four-years old!"

"Then he'll be a four-year old armed with a bloody crowbar in the event that one of these creatures makes it past us!"

The noise from the crowd suddenly increased. There was movement from deep within the darkness beyond the hatch. Blaise crouched down beside his son, hurriedly handed the boy the crowbar and explained what to do with it. The boy, to his credit, took the weapon with both hands and nodded, his small, serious face grimacing in concentration at his father's instructions.

"Zabini…" Draco warned. He could see a silhouette emerging from the darkness. No, make that _two_.

"We're ready," Blaise said, taking his place at Draco's right. He unsheathed the katana and tossed the scabbard.

"Either of you speak Russian?" bellowed a gruff male voice from either the third or the fourth level.

"Yes!" Draco called out, not taking his eyes off the hatch.

"Don't go for the head first with these ones," advised the anonymous spectator. "Don't even think about going for the chest or gut. It won't slow them down."

More voices chimed in. "Get them off their feet just like you did with that last one! Go for the knees and then the head!"

"Four is too many for them…"

"God save us all..."

"Shut up! Renauld will have our rations taken away!"

"No!" said the woman who had given them the new weapons. "They can do it! And let the Fatman take my fucking rations!"

"What are they saying?" Blaise demanded.

"In summary? Hobble the bastards and then cut their off," Draco said, raising the scythe high above his head. He sent his old friend a reckless smile. "We survived seven years of Snape. This will be a moonlit stroll in comparison."

But then, rather anticlimactically, the familiar droning buzzer sounded and the door to the hatch promptly came down with a loud bang. In addition to the flood lights that illuminated the games, every single light beyond the arena was switched back on.

The reason for this new development was not a surprise to Draco. He looked up the first floor viewing gallery and saw that Honoria had arrived. She looked utterly livid. It was gratifying to see a nervous Renauld beside her, in what appeared to be rapid explanation mode. Renauld raised a microphone and addressed the crowd, sounding markedly less pleased with himself than before.

"Game's over for today!" he shouted. "Go home, all of you! And get those wizards out of there!"

* * *

Anatoli and three additional guards entered the arena, stepping over the elaborate, wet mess of dismembered zombies. One of the guards waved a handgun lazily at Blaise and his son. Blaise didn't need to be able to speak the language to understand what was about to transpire. He tensed.

"Send the dark one and his boy back to the hold. Honoria wants to speak to the blond one."

"My friend and his son stay with me," Draco said to the guard, and the quality of that edict made the guards acutely aware that Draco was still holding the scythe.

Anatoli stepped in, raising both palms up in a diplomatic gesture. "Put it down, weezard. Your friend can come."

"That freak and its vermin offspring are supposed to go back to the hold with the rest of the magical scum!" spat the guard with the handgun.

Draco's temper ignited. Both he and the guard took a step toward each other, but an altercation was forestalled by the guard abruptly howling in pain and grabbing his shin. All six adults looked down to find Blaise's son (still) holding on to the crowbar his father had given him. He had apparently just swung it at the guard's leg and looked in danger of following through with another blow.

The expression on the boy's face could best be described as indignant.

"My daddy and the man _won the game_ ," said the lad, with an icy haughtier that was Zabini through and through.

Blaise cleared his throat and wisely plucked the crowbar from his son's grasp.

"What is your name, leetle boy?" Anatoli asked.

"Henry Miles Greengrass Zabini."

"That is many names."

Henry shrugged.

"Ok, Henry. You and your papa come with us, yes?"

The guard with the handgun opened his mouth to predictably protest, but was interrupted by Anatoli, who thankfully switched back to Russian before unleashing a string of blistering profanities and threats to neuter the man if he so much as uttered another word to delay them.

* * *

_Grimmauld Place, London._

"Neville said you were looking for me?"

Alec Mercer glanced up from his computer screen to find Hermione standing at the doorway to the laboratory.

He slipped off his spectacles. "I was. Come in. I hope I haven't taken you away from anything important?"

"Not really. I was helping the Cowboy wrap up his report on Honoria."

Mercer made a 'pfft' noise. "If that's even her real name..."

"It is," Hermione assured. She pulled a chair next to Mercer and sat down. "Her history and her expertise were real enough. It's her employer we have no idea about. She can't have been working on her own."

"And we're sure she was the one who put the grenade inside the specimen we brought to the hospital?"

"Actually, considering she had no direct access to the weapons vault, the Cowboy suspects she used _Imperio_ on someone else who did. She was unnaturally good at that spell," Hermione added, remembering her utter inability to throw off the Unforgiveable, not even for a moment.

Mercer was giving her a blank look.

"It's one of three Unforgiveable spells. There's _Avada Kedavra_ , the killing curse. _Crucio_ , which inflicts pain. And _Imperio_."

"What does that last one do?"

"It controls you," Hermione said. "You become a puppet, effectively. In many ways, it's the most heinous of the Three."

"Charming." Mercer gave her an uncharacteristically cold look. "You know, I was in that vault when the Cowboy picked out a gun for me. I might have been the one to steal the grenade."

Hermione considered this. "It's possible, but not likely. Kent was there at the same time. She didn't report anything untoward about your behaviour. Richards thinks it might have been her who was under _Imperio_. Kent had knowledge of the vault's weaponry, the access and the opportunity. Plus, she wasn't exactly popular. If someone wanted to arouse suspicions about her, it would have been a good way to go about doing that."

"Malfoy was there, too, remember?"

Hermione's expression darkened. "Yes, he was. But then he had practically zero access to the specimen." She stared at Mercer for a moment. "You blame yourself for what happened at Welwyn, don't you? For Jason and Mira's deaths?"

The neuroscientist began leafing through numerous printouts on his desk, searching for something. "Bloody oath, I do. The trip was my idea. We could have run a metal scan over the specimen before we left Grimmauld Place. The grenade could have been discovered."

"If I recall, you asked Jason to run the scan precisely before the specimen was to be brought into the MRI room. Did he do it?"

"No."

Hermione sighed. "We can't control for every eventuality, Alec. Let it go. If you want to blame someone, blame Honoria."

"The power you people have," Mercer said, quietly, "to seemingly bend the laws of nature, to kill with just a phrase, to control people. It's frightening. I don't blame your government for trying to keep it all a secret."

"And I don't blame Muggles for being worried about it now that they know we're real," Hermione said. "I felt the same way when I found out."

"But _you're_ one of them. What do you have to worry about?"

"I'm Muggle _and_ Magical. I straddle both worlds and bear their respective concerns, as does Harry and Richards. And remember that we have a few Purebloods working here with us, too. Dr Patil, for instance," she added, knowing Mercer's affection for Padma. "We're all on the same page—we're here to help. There's been a lot to take in. Seven months ago the idea of a zombie outbreak seemed ludicrous. Five months ago, you found out Magic and its People, exist. And two days ago, well… Two days ago Ron was still alive."

Mercer put his spectacles back on. "That's actually the first thing I wanted to talk to you about. McAlister and I only had a chance to look at Ron's most recent blood analysis after the funeral." Mercer had by now located the printout he'd been searching for. He handed it to Hermione.

She recognised Dr Kate McAlister's handwriting in the dramatic red circles and annotations on the page's margin. There were also a few exclamation marks. After many weeks of helping Padma look over Ron's blood work, it didn't take a great deal of expertise to notice that the serological figures were startlingly different.

"When was this sample taken?" she asked.

"Dr Patil drew the last sample just before Emily went in to check on Ron."

Hermione frowned. "Help me out, Alec. What am I looking at here?"

"You're looking at _regeneration_. All of his vital systems were coming back online. Liver, kidneys, pancreatic functions were all still well below normal, but they were improving."

"What are you saying? Are you telling me Ron was getting better?"

Mercer saw Hermione's growing distress as she contemplated the notion that Ron had been killed when he had been on the cusp of recovery. He was quick to allay her fears. "No. Granted, ReGen had staved off the Infection for weeks, but eventually it wore off. He was still Infected when he died. We didn't get a chance to do an autopsy, because there was no indication that one was warranted. But I'm guessing that if we had a look at his brain, we would have seen extensive neurogenesis."

"So he was a _different_ kind of zombie?" Hermione speculated. "A smart zombie?"

Mercer nodded. "Eventually, yep. Although maybe 'smart' is overkill, if you'll pardon the pun. More like a precisely programmed zombie. Like toxo-infected mice, perhaps?"

Hermione blinked. "Alec, I know Australia has some rather exotic fauna, but you're going to have a fill me in."

"Toxoplasma gondii. It's a single-celled parasite that can only reproduce inside the digestive tract of cats. About a third of all people carry the parasite. Mice who contract it behave…differently. They become bolder, essentially engaging in more cat-attracting activities. It's quite fascinating, really."

She had no doubt. "The mice end up getting caught and eaten by cats, thus enabling the parasite to reach its spawning grounds, so to speak?"

"Exactly," said Mercer. "But in this case, the Infection doesn't make a magical zombie take more risks, it just uses the parts of the brain required to further the Infection's needs."

"And what does the Infection need?"

"In a nutshell? To _spread_. To do that it needs to keep its hosts safe, nourished and viable until such time they can come into contact with new, healthy people to Infect and to feed on."

"Malfoy and I saw evidence of tool usage on the remains of a victim at Hogwarts. Are you saying _that's_ part of the Infection's agenda?"

"It depends. What were the tools used for?"

"Our old Hogwarts' caretaker's brains and liver were removed." Hermione remembered the precision of the wounds. "Neatly," she added.

Mercer thought about this. "If magical zombies did that, then it could be that they were targeting the most nutritious parts of the body. The liver fits that description, certainly. The brain doesn't possess any distinctive nutritional value, so that might have just been for the, uh, taste."

"That's what Malfoy said."

"I'm inclined to concur." There was a short moment of silence. "You know, we could really use Malfoy's help right now. If he hadn't run off with the enemy, of course."

She patted him on the arm. "We'll manage. Now, you said there's something else you wanted to talk to me about?"

Mercer nodded. "Our creepy friend in the red-hoodie is back. Let's go upstairs for a better look." He opened a drawer at his desk and took out a packet of crisps. "I was going to take a break anyway and Patil _hates_ it when I eat in here."

* * *

From the elevated vantage point of the attic window, they observed the zombie in the red-hoodie for a few minutes. It was raining again outside, not that this thwarted their visitor. In between handfuls of crisps, Mercer jotted down notes.

"I suppose we now know why he can see the house so easily—he's magical," Hermione speculated.

"He's so…still," Mercer said. "What do you suppose he wants?"

Hermione put her hand on the window pane, leaning in for a close look. Her breath fogged up the glass. Each time the fog dissipated and the blurry, rain-shrouded image of the zombie re-appeared, she half expected it to have moved even closer to the house.

"I think he wants to come inside."

"Christ," muttered Mercer. " _Can_ he get in?"

"Not without an invitation."

"I thought that was only vampires?"

"Vampires can't get in either," Hermione said, slightly confused at the turn in conversation.

"There are _vampires_?" Mercer asked, looking horrified. Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but he held up a hand. "No, wait! Don't tell me. I don't want to know. I suppose if there are zombies and werewolves, there must be vampires. What about Bigfoot? Oh my God. Is Bigfoot real?"

Whatever Hermione had been about to respond with was interrupted by the attic door opening. It was Harry.

"Thought I might find you two up here," he said. "You're wanted downstairs. House meeting."

"What's happened?" Hermione asked.

"Richards' sources just called in on the Floo. They've managed to find out where Alexander Amarov is being held." Harry was wearing a purposeful expression. It was a good change to the detachment she'd seen in him since Ron's funeral. "Looks like we've going on a rescue mission."

* * *

They were ordered to clean up first before seeing Honoria.

Accordingly, Draco, Blaise and Henry were taken to a makeshift decontamination shower, stripped and hosed down with tepid water. Draco could only assume that Blaise and his son hadn't had a good wash in quite some time because Henry's delighted giggles could be heard over the next cubicle.

The resilience of children, thought Draco, with no small measure of wonder.

After the wash came the inspection. The clothes Draco had previously worn were ruined, obviously. It was put into a hazmat bag and disposed of. Blaise and Draco were given rubber boots and rough, beige overalls to wear, while Henry had to make do with a guard's jumper, which he had to wear like a dress. They were then inspected by a doctor with the bedside manner of a soggy biscuit. The humourless man peered at their collections of cuts, scrapes and bruises, applying stinging antiseptic where required. Henry was not so happy when they had to have their blood taken.

"Doesn't like needles," Blaise said. It was all Blaise had said to Draco since they'd exited the arena.

When it was done, they waited in the doctor's office. The doctor took their blood to be tested for Infection, while Anatoli and the three guards stood by the door in silence. An exhausted Henry was, by now, fast asleep in his father's arms. The door opened and Honoria walked in. She paused for a moment to consider the two wizards in their identical attire and bright red, rubber boots.

Amusement briefly showed on her face. "You two make quite the couple." To the three guards, she said, "Take Mr Zabini and his son to Mr Malfoy's room."

Blaise cast Draco a wary look, but complied when Draco gave him a subtle nod. Once Blaise and his son had left with the guards, Honoria addressed Anatoli. "I told you to watch him! Within less than two days of him being here, I find out he's gone one round in Renauld's pit." She made a noise to convey her frustration. "While wearing borrowed _Armani_ , I'm told."

"The shoes were Bally, if that helps?" said Draco.

Anatoli looked contrite, but held his ground. "You didn't say I cannot take the weezard to the Pit. I cannot stop him. He do what he want."

Honoria's eyes narrowed. She was well dressed that afternoon in a sleek, black pantsuit, but she was still sporting the contagious exhaustion she'd brought back with her from Grimmauld Place. "Anatoli, leave us."

After Anatoli had shut the door behind him, Honoria walked around the doctor's desk and sat on the edge. She stared at Draco, thoughtful.

"Zabini seemed surprised that I knew his name. I had quite the crush on him when we were at Hogwarts."

"And now you keep him in a cage like an animal. If that's how you deal with your old, school crushes, I hate to see what happens to your actual partners."

She sobered. "There are few things about which I openly disagree with Amarov. The games are top on the list."

"So stop them."

"I can't. I've tried."

" _Try harder_."

They stared at each other in silent hostility.

"It was a mistake for Renauld to put a child into that arena. The people already detest the blood sport, but Alexander demands that we are all united in our hatred and mistrust of magical folk. Unfortunately, what the crowd witnessed today had _everything_ to do with being human. They saw a father trying to keep his child alive." She scowled at Draco. "And they saw _you_ risk _your_ life to help a friend. Alexander will be angry when he finds out about this. He wants magical people to be seen as less than human."

"Well that tactic sounds somewhat familiar, doesn't it?" Draco said, rhetorically. "Switch the games for Dachau and I really fail to see the difference."

"These are difficult times!"

"Yes, they are." Draco snapped. "And yet you respond by sabotaging the quest for a cure. By imprisoning our people and torturing them."

" _Our_ people?" Honoria hissed. "It's 'our people' now, is it? I seem to recall a time when you were trying to remind _my_ people of our inherent inferiority to Purebloods, of our unworthiness to possess any magical ability. You're a hypocrite, Malfoy. And you served a madman."

"And I suppose Amarov is a model of mental stability?"

She whirled away from him, pacing the small confines of the office as she spoke. "Alexander has his failings, but he is still saving thousands of lives in the bargain!"

"There are other ways to save lives that do not involve such bargains. The only thing Alexander Amarov has that appeals to you is a deep loathing of magic and magical folk. I don't presume to know why you detest your own kind so much, but I know that whatever reason you give, it cannot justify all this."

"Don't speak to me like you're some kind of hero. You're not."

Draco surprised her by laughing heartily. "Oh, I am no hero. My father warned me, very early on, about what happens to heroes in the real world."

"You knew Renauld would ask me to come and see today's Games and that I could not afford to let you die in the Pit. You knew the message it would send to the crowd, didn't you—to see you help Zabini and save that child? It was all calculated and only I know that because _I bloody know you_. After all these years, you're still the same." She shook her head at him. "It's all smoke and mirrors with you, Malfoy. It's just showmanship. I wish Granger could have seen that about you."

"Hermione Granger was under no illusions as to what I am," Draco said, his voice going very soft now.

Honoria seemed aware that she was wading out into dangerous waters. She brought the conversation to a point. "I want you to start working on the cure with Professor Belikov tomorrow. You will do your best or Zabini and his son will suffer. I may not be able to put them back into the Pit without risking mutiny from the spectators, but I can return them to the hold. Or worse. Do we have an understanding, Malfoy?"

He did. As his father had warned, this was what came of revealing an attachment to anything or anyone. _Weakness_. It gave others a power over you, and this would be the second time Honoria used that weakness against him.

His wand hand twitched. "We have an understanding," he said.

"Good, I'll have Anatoli escort you back to your quarters."

It was gratifying to see her take a hasty step backwards when Draco suddenly stood, his chair scraping against the floor. Her eyes darted to the door, to where the protection of Anatoli waited just beyond. It was difficult to be intimidating while wearing red Santa boots and what felt like a lumpy burlap bag with a zipper, but Draco had years of practice.

"Honoria."

She hesitated, and then, "Yes?"

"The next time you're alone in a room with me, I'm going to kill you."


	20. Altogether Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission to save Amarov from pirates is underway. Harry really wants a gun. Mercer has terrible timing, and Hermione has a bad feeling.

Satellite surveillance provided by the US Wizarding Senate's intelligence division revealed the probable location of Alexander Amarov.

While there was no conclusive visual proof, there was enough suspicious activity to speculate that the Russian billionaire was being held on a fishing trawler several kilometres east of Cardiff. And nearby, just off the coast of Avonmouth, was Amarov's fleet. The current status of the fleet was unknown.

What _was_ known was that there were several oil tankers and one refinery vessel in the middle of the fleet and that Amarov had previously (and happily) traded this supply with the military or anyone else capable of paying his asking price. But now the fleet was not responding to any attempts to communicate with it. It was also stationary, having maintained the same position for the past month.

The consistent proximity of the fishing trawler to the fleet had been a major clue.

"We think Amarov's people are trying to negotiate his ransom," Richards said to the assembled team. "That's why they've shut down all trade with outsiders. It's radio silence until they get their boss back."

"So does the fleet know where he is?" Harry asked.

"Possibly," Richards allowed. "But they may not have the means to launch a recovery mission. My guess is they're working out a price."

"Is he really worth all that trouble?" wondered Harry. It was a valid concern. "Why haven't they just sailed away?"

Scrimgeour considered the question. "Loyalty, perhaps?"

Richards was looking at the map he had spread out across Scrimgeour's desk. "Or maybe he has the keys to the car…"

"Keys?" said Harry.

"It may not be a case of the fleet staying out of loyalty, but rather out of necessity."

"What do you mean?" Scrimgeour asked.

"I don't know," Richards said, stroking his jaw. "There's a lot we can't know until we speak to Amarov. Personally, I don't like either idea. If he commands that much power or loyalty, or even fear, he's dangerous. And if he's somehow connected to the fleet's mobility, that's even worse."

Hermione had been silent up until that point. "We're risking a lot to go and get this man. All for a magical item that he may or may not have, which may or may not give ReGen the boost it needs."

Neville spoke up. "I'd bet my life on the Peach being safely stored somewhere within that fleet. Amarov is a particular sort of collector, Hermione. I _know_ the sort. He wouldn't have abandoned his life's work."

"OK, so say he has the Peach, what if he doesn't want to part with it?"

"Oh, he'll part with it, one way or another," Richards assured her. "And if he has additional resources that can help this mission, we'll be takin' that, too."

"This is starting to sound less like a rescue and more like piracy on the high seas," Hermione muttered.

"You got a problem with that, Miss Granger?" Richards asked.

All eyes turned to Hermione, which angered her. She had never intended to be the moral compass of the group. It was a tiring responsibility that she did not want. She met the Cowboy's knowing stare. Clearly, they were both thinking about her earlier reluctance to force Malfoy to cooperate with them.

Hermione sighed. "We tried playing nice. Let's do it your way."

Richards didn't smile very often, but when he did, there was nothing friendly about it. He rolled up the map. "Alright folks, you have your instructions. Let's suit up."

* * *

The modular lounge he'd been sleeping on was too hard. It was also too slippery, owing to over-enthusiastic maintenance with leather conditioner, probably. Twice during the night, Draco had nearly slid off the thing and had had to brace himself against the floor with his palms to avoid rolling over onto the carpet, face first.

At some point, sleep won out, aided by the mild sedative the dour doctor had given him following his chat with Honoria (probably at Honoria's behest). Draco couldn't fault her. He'd let the rage out for a wee jaunt, and Honoria had been there to provoke it.

A noise awakened him. It was indistinct, but loud enough to pull him from drug induced slumber. Draco's eyes were still closed when he heard the soft sound of sheets pulled aside and then the shuffling, short footfalls that meant Henry was also awake. Draco opened his eyes as soon as he felt the gentle, yet persistent tugging at the sleeve of his t-shirt.

Henry stood in the darkness of Draco's state room. Anatoli had sourced suitable clothing for the boy. The pajamas he wore looked brand new, still indented with the original packet creases. They were too large and were folded at least three times at the cuffs and hems.

"What is it?" Draco asked the boy, his voice rough from sleep and the earlier shouting in the arena.

Henry hesitated, but seemed determined to speak. "Daddy is having a bad dream," whispered the child. One small hand pointed at the bed that Draco had ceded to Blaise and his son. Henry's other hand was worrying at the hem of his pajama top.

Blaise moaned. Draco watched for another minute, as much to observe the extent of Blaise's (and Henry's) distress, as to give his eyes time to accustom to the darkness. Presently, he saw Blaise's hand dart out in front of him, as if fending off an invisible attack. And then there was muttering; panicked, agonised and breathless. Another minute passed and the sound that followed the muttering was unmistakable.

"See," whispered Henry, and there were tears in his voice.

Draco swung his bare feet to the floor. Muscles in his legs, biceps and shoulders all simultaneously twinged and protested; souvenirs from his recent exertion in the Pit. On the plus-side they had been given the all-clear from the Infection. The blood tests came back negative.

In truth, Draco hadn't been too concerned and neither had Blaise, for that matter. Blaise had already endured the Pit prior to Draco joining the Fleet and was aware of the risks that did not include immediate death by ravenous zombies. As rife as the Infection was, the virus did not survive for very long outside of the body. As such, it would have been extremely difficult to contract it from Infected blood splatter alone.

A bite, on the other hand, was a whole other story.

A glance at the digital display on the alarm clock beside the bed told Draco that it was close enough to the new day to fast track its commencement. He stood and picked up the blankets for Henry. The makeshift bed still held the warmth of Draco's body. Henry had clearly managed little to no sleep next to his thrashing father. The boy looked at him, uncertain. Henry resembled Zabini for the most part, save for a mop of inky black curls which bore the unmistakable Greengrass stamp, cowlick and all.

"Climb in. Go to sleep. I'll see to Za—your father."

Draco waited until Henry had pulled the sheets to his chin and turned over to face the backrest of the lounge. He waited a few minutes more until the boy's breathing was deep and even, before he walked across the room to where Blaise was now engaged in somnambulistic sparring.

"Zabini," Draco said, shaking the other man firmly at the shoulder. Draco was completely unsurprised when Blaise sprang upright in bed, instantly alert. His hands flew to the empty spot next to him.

" _Henry_."

"Lower your voice. Your son has only just gone back to sleep."

Blaise blinked rapidly, his breathing advertised his panic, but he eventually calmed when he registered that Henry was indeed sleeping soundly in the lounge across the room. Draco discreetly examined the orange-tinted horizon beyond the sunroom windows, while Blaise used his sleeve to roughly mop at the tears that ran down his face.

When he had composed himself, Blaise stared down at the coverlet. "I'm sorry. Was I…noisy?"

"Not enough to wake me up," Draco lied, "but your son was concerned."

A bark of humourless laughter was Blaise's response. " _He_ 's concerned? A four-year old boy is concerned for the emotional well-being of his father. It's an upside down world we live in, Malfoy."

The question was overdue and this seemed as good a time as any. "Where is his mother?"

Blaise looked up at Draco now. "She's dead."

Draco had gathered as much. "When?"

"Five days ago."

 _That_ was unexpected, although more pieces of the recent puzzle of Blaise and Henry began to fall into place. Too much time passed before Draco next spoke. He regretted that. Blaise looked increasingly uncomfortable in the interim.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Zabini. How did she die?"

Blaise's gaze returned to the coverlet.

Draco ran a hand through his hair. He stood and walked across to the sleek kitchenette ensconced in a corner of the suite. Desmond had seen fit to stock the wood-paneled refrigerator with basic, packaged food items and liquor decanted into plastic bottles. There was no glass, flatware or cutlery; nothing that could be easily broken and certainly nothing with a sharp edge.

Grimacing, Draco uncapped a plastic bottle and tentatively sniffed at its contents. Making an executive decision, he then dragged a leather club chair over the carpeted floor, to the side of the bed and sat in it.

"Rather good whiskey, I believe. We might as well drink it before the plastic befouls it." Draco held the bottle out to Blaise, but the other man ignored the offering. Undaunted, Draco took several long, burning swallows before resuming the original line of questioning, though initially with a slightly wheezy voice and watery eyes.

"So, was it Daphne? Or Astoria?"

Blaise didn't respond, but it was the acute expression of pain that settled over his face at mention of Daphne Greengrass that answered the question.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "I remember Daphne, of course. She, Pansy and Millicent were inseparable for a time. I don't remember you paying her much attention. Didn't really seem your type, you know?"

There it was. A muscle twitched in Blaise's rigidly held jaw. "And what is my type?"

Draco shrugged. "Pretty."

"Malfoy, please stop talking before I am compelled to hit you."

Pleased with this facsimile of progress, Draco grunted and held out the bottle of whiskey once more. "Drink, then."

They drank in uncomfortable, near-silence as the state room gradually filled with dawn sunlight. Henry continued to sleep and there was certainly no rush to wake the boy. The gentle hum of the cruise liner's engines was soothing, underfoot.

"She didn't get Infected or put into the Pit to fight, if that's what you're thinking," Blaise eventually said, so unexpectedly that Draco realised he'd been in danger of dozing off. "She was alive and well when we were brought into the fleet."

"By force?"

"By trickery," Blaise informed, with a sneer. "When we knew of its existence, I and other wizards came here to trade magic for supplies. We offered what work we could provide Amarov and his Muggles, in exchange for a period of respite from the mainland. Or for safe passage to less Infected areas. We weren't to know of Amarov's particular…aversion to Magic."

"Amarov imprisoned all of you," Draco surmised.

"He could not be bargained with or bribed. There was nothing I could offer that he would take in trade," Blaise said, with angry incredulity. He glanced up at Draco. "And as you know, I am adept at finding out the things people don't yet realise they want."

Draco snorted. "I remember well enough." The bottle was nearly empty and he felt a sharp headache coming on. He and Blaise were going to have a spectacularly shite day ahead, but Blaise's story was well worth the price of the hangover.

"I should not have brought Daphne and Henry with me," he continued, his voice wavering. "That is the beginning and end of it, really. Had I simply left them in Cheshire…" Blaise shut his eyes. "She died of pneumonia, Malfoy. Can you fathom that? In this day and age, my wife died in my arms. Of pneumonia. The conditions in the hold are indescribable. Livestock meant for the slaughter yard is kept in better condition than the Magical population of this fleet. After they took all our wands, there was nothing I could do. I asked for help. I…I _begged_ for it. I said I would do anything if they would give her medicine."

"You volunteered for the Pit," Draco said, his voice now very soft.

Blaise nodded. "But it was too late. Daphne was so sick. I don't even know if they eventually gave her the medication she needed. It didn't help. She died a day after my first fight." He looked at Draco and now there was a reassuring glint of malevolence in his dark eyes. "Suffice it to say I was rather uncooperative after that."

"I expect you bloody well were," Draco said, and the rage was there this time, toxic and tired of biding its time.

"I'm not the only one. There are many like me being held here. And like me, some were foolish enough to bring their families with them. We're angry and desperate. We're the fuel you need, Malfoy. All that's missing is a spark."

Draco's stare was piercing. "I'll need more details when you're feeling up to it."

"Is that why you jumped into the Pit? Was it to enlist me?"

"Would it matter if that was my sole reason?" 

"No. And even if it was, you still have my eternal gratitude. You saved our lives."

"Our lives aren't saved just yet, Zabini. There's a long way to go."

"Yes," Blaise said, with a knowing nod. "Will you tell me what the plan is? Because I know you have one and by Merlin, I really need to be part of that right now."

"You won't know until you need to know." Draco pulled his legs up under him and sat cross-legged in the chair, bottle held loosely in his hand, balancing upon his knee. "That is all I can say."

"Why? I know the fleet well! I can help!"

"And you _will_ help by answering the multitude of vague and annoying questions I will put to you without once asking me why the answers are important. I cannot tell you, Blaise, because I cannot trust you."

Blaise was not offended by this. He was merely resigned and perhaps a little surly. He stared across the room, at the still and silent form of his sleeping son. "It's because of Henry, isn't it? If they take him, I will do and say anything to ensure his safety."

Draco nodded. It was as simple as that. It was not that Zabini could not keep a secret, it was just that he was unfortunately saddled with the most profound weakness it was possible to have.

"Malfoy?"

"Yes?"

"How the hell did you get out of Azkaban? Last I heard, the place was a sealed tomb."

"That, my friend, is a story of luck, brilliance and cunning best saved until after I finish my shift in the labs today." Draco handed the bottle to Blaise and groaned softly as he stood and rolled his shoulders. "The day-job beckons. Get some more sleep, if you can. We're all going to need it."

* * *

It was just after dinner when the call was sent out for the seven members of the rescue party to convene in Scrimgeour's office.

Padma and Hermione were the first to arrive. They were dressed entirely in black, including protective vests and helmets. Both women had their long hair neatly braided and the braids coiled into tight, low buns ("Don't give 'em anything to grab a hold of in a skirmish," Richards had instructed).

There were, in fact, _many_ instructions relayed to the team. They were not FYIs or suggestions or recommendations. "Ignore any of this at your peril," Richards had fairly snarled at them. A whey-faced Neville had asked if he could write some of it down.

The two women paused to look at each other and it was Hermione who cracked a smile first. "I feel like a fool."

"Excellent," said Padma, whose smile was in her eyes. She walked several meters to a satin-upholstered settee and sat down, grimacing at the pronounced swishing friction created by her clothing. "I feel the same."

Hermione lifted one of what seemed to be a dozen Velcro-fastened flaps on her trousers. The uniforms were clearly made for magical combat, given that there was a holster specifically for a wand. "The trouble with having so many pockets is that you forget which ones you've put your things into…"

"I believe they're called your 'appointments'," Padma said. She patted her capsicum spray. "Minus a gun, of course."

Harry had joined them in the sitting room. Unlike the women, he seemed completely at home in what could best be described as Wizarding SWAT gear. He held the sloppy remnants of a last-minute sandwich. "Why don't we get guns? There's certainly enough in the vault upstairs."

"Because we haven't had the time to train with them," Hermione reminded him, still engrossed in her pockets. Ah, _there_ was her capsicum spray.

"What training do you need? You point, you shoot."

"Before the Welwyn mission, Mercer spent two hours with the Cowboy learning how to do just that and he still couldn't shoot straight at the end of it," Padma informed.

"And yet _he's_ getting a gun again today, isn't he?"

"Only because he doesn't have a wand, Harry." Hermione said. She spent a moment contemplating sitting down beside Padma on the settee, but was concerned that she might be unable to rise to her feet again without assistance due to the weight of her equipment-filled trousers. It would be a quick trip to the bottom of the ocean if she had the extreme misfortune of falling into it.

Padma was displeased. "Mercer and Wallen should not be coming on this mission at all. I cannot fathom why Scrimgeour said yes to either of their ill-considered requests. Mercer nearly died last time. They're both civilians."

"You're not exactly Rambo either, Padma," Harry muttered.

Padma's gave Harry a snooty look. "And pray tell who or what exactly is a Rambo?"

" _He_ is, apparently," said Harry, looking very amused as Dr Alec Mercer walked into the office. Like his colleagues, he was dressed in the same black military gear Richards has supplied. But he was the only one among them who had additionally donned a black balaclava.

"Goodness, you're _keen_ ," Padma said, her eyes going slightly wide. The neuroscientist was normally a t-shirt and jeans sort of fellow, but he cut quite the intimidating figure in his present attire. The bag of Cheese Twisties gave him away, however.

"Too much?" he asked, sounding sheepish. He pulled off the balaclava, causing Harry to snort into his sandwich.

Richards strode into the sitting room, carrying several long, green canvas tote bags. He tossed the bags to the ground and had been about to squat down to unzip them when he caught sight of Mercer. "I don't remember handing out any camo face paint, Doc."

Mercer was undaunted in his enthusiasm. "I improvised," he said, a little defensively. "It's shoe-polish."

By now, Harry had finished the remainder of his sandwich. He thumbed away a smear of mayonnaise from his bullet-proof vest and then inclined his head towards the tote bags. "That's guns, innit? I hope that's guns. If Mercer gets to wear war paint, I get to have a gun."

* * *

They hovered fifty meters above the fishing trawler.

Fortuitously, the weather was calm. Below them was the Bristol Channel, black-grey in the darkness with the occasional frothy wave slapping against the hull of the trawler. The vessel wasn't making much of a show of hiding, given that all its lights were on. For the moment, anyway.

Richards' plan involved the use of night-vision goggles and a rather nasty spell that Harry and Hermione had never heard of. Every member of the team had a precise part to play in the rescue, even Mercer, and they all waited patiently for Richard's signal.

"Are you still sore that Richards didn't let you have gun?" Hermione whispered to Harry.

Harry knew she was nervous. Hermione always got chatty when she was nervous. And she got nervous every time she was on a broomstick. She didn't like broomsticks and Harry had it on good authority that the feeling was mutual.

He shifted on his broom a little, hoping to encourage Hermione to ease her grip around his abdomen. Her arms were like a pair of boa constrictors. He swallowed. Perhaps that last minute tuna sandwich hadn't been a good idea…

"Yes," answered Harry. "I dunno. It feels like we have an unfair advantage here."

"That's the point," Hermione said. "Guns are messy."

Harry spun his head around to stare at her. "You _have_ seen my Chainsaw Hex, haven't you?"

"There's movement going aft," came the Cowboy's voice over their headsets. "Patil, do you copy?"

"Yes," said Padma, who was carrying Mercer on the back of her broom. "Two of them have just left the cabin. They're smoking, up near the stern. Ugh. Nasty habit."

"So is kidnapping," Neville added.

"Do they have guns?" asked Harry.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"If they do, I'm not seeing any," Padma replied. "I think they've just come topside for a smoke and a bit of air."

Richards was the only team member to fly solo that night. He edged closer to Padma and Mercer's position, looking through a pair of binoculars. "Hang tight, folks. We need them to return to the cabin or the spell won't work."

"Do you like gelato?" Mercer blurted.

There was nothing but static over the communication system, ostensibly because everyone was waiting for Padma to reply to the question. And why shouldn't' she bloody well reply to it, Hermione thought. Yes, this was a zombie apocalypse and they were hanging in the air, on broomsticks, over the middle of the ocean, about to storm a vessel of mercenaries who didn't give a toss about lung cancer and probably _did_ have guns.

But God damn it, if they weren't willing to also fight for things like awkward romances (and gelato), then there really was no point to any of it, was there?

" _What_?"

Hermione winced on Mercer's behalf. Padma Patil was intimidating on the best of days. She could picture, well enough, Padma's expression of icy incredulity.

"Gelato. Do you enjoy it?"

"Mercer, is this really the time—"

"She loves it," Hermione answered for her friend. "Rum and Raisin, especially."

"Great. After we're done here, we're all going out for gelato."

The anxiety in Mercer's voice was evident. Hermione felt it, too, along with the acidic tang of grief that she and Harry had no time to properly process. Mira, Jason, Emily, Agent Kent and Ron would not be joining them for celebratory gelato.

"Doc, after we're done here, _I'm buying_ ," came Richard's gruff voice.

Felix Wallen spoke through the headsets now, quiet and very serious. "Agent Richards, the two men have finished their cigarettes. They are going back inside."

Richards confirmed this through his binoculars. "Wands out," he said.

Hermione was very grateful for the quick, reassuring squeeze of Harry's gloved hand on top of hers. Her own hand was shaking slightly as she slipped her wand out of her holster and gripped it tight.

_Here we go._


	21. Occupational Hazards: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following a successful rescue, the team finally come face to face with Alexander Amarov.

Harry and Hermione were the first to touch down soundlessly on the deck of the trawler. It was cluttered with refuse, coils of mouldy rope and what smelled like a week-old catch left to rot in piles of netting.

Ominously, there was a large buck knife sticking out the side of a barrel. It looked like someone had been using the barrel for knife-throwing practice. With a grimace, Harry pulled out the knife and tossed it overboard. There was a particularly slimy patch on the deck and Hermione's left foot failed to find purchase when she trod in it. She steadied herself by grabbing onto some rigging. The rusted, disused crane attached to the rigging creaked in protest. It looked in serious danger of collapsing on top of them.

"Careful," Harry whispered, glancing upwards at the crane.

They handed their brooms to Mercer, who strapped it down across his back, in a harness. The wind had picked up on the starboard side of the trawler, such that the team members closest to Mercer and Padma had to actively steer their brooms, in addition to hovering.

"Keep steady," Richards called out. "Patil, might as well put the freeze on your broom now, but not so far out from the boat that Mercer can't climb on and off in a hurry if he needs to."

" _Immobulous_ ," Padma cast, after a moment's repositioning. Her broom now hovered in a fixed position.

Harry retrieved his Invisibility Cloak from where he had stashed it inside his vest. He attached a breathing mask to the helmet he was already wearing and adjusted the strap of his goggles. Hermione grabbed his arm before he took off.

"Don't be a hero," she said, giving him a familiar, pointed look.

"I could say the same thing to you," Harry replied.

He gave her a wink before donning the old cloak, and vanishing. A small wave of nostalgia swept over Hermione. She knew all about skulking around in dangerous places with Harry and his cloak. Only now, Ron wasn't there with them to silently agree with Hermione that this was all a bad idea. Most of their many adventures had been necessary bad ideas, when you thought about it…

"Granger." Richards' deep voice came through the headset. "Are you ready?"

"Just about."

Hermione gingerly walked over to the bow and took out a _Reduced_ conch shell that she'd been storing in one of her many pockets.

_"Why a conch?" she'd asked Richards, much earlier._

_"Because we originally used a tiny music box, but everyone agreed that was creepy as hell."_

She laid it carefully on the cleanest part of the deck she could find, making sure there was nothing else contacting between the shell and the trawler. When she removed the Reduction spell, the conch grew to the size of an American football and began to vibrate, making a dull rattling sound against the wood of the deck. It wasn't terribly loud, but Hermione still held her breath for a moment.

"It's in place."

"Good," said Richards. "Masks and goggles on, folks. It's about to get a little stuffy."

"I don't like that we're using Dark Magic," Neville grumbled.

"We've been through this already, Longbottom. It ain't Dark Magic, it's American wizarding ingenuity."

"This particular bit of ingenuity will suck out all the air and light within twenty-cubic meters," Neville pointed out. That's a lot of marine life below and around us that's not going to survive."

"Neville," hissed Harry's annoyed voice, through the communication system, "put a note into the suggestion box later, OK? _I'm in_. Amarov is here. Or at least I think it's him. He's got a bag over his head. They've got him tied up in the engine room, strapped to a chair. And there's…Merlin, he's got about a dozen wires and bit and pieces coming out of him. It looks like they've hooked him up to something."

"Can you be more specific, Potter?"

"He's connected to a laptop and also what looks like a car battery."

"Christ. Is he conscious?" asked Richards.

"I can't tell. He's breathing, though."

"Don't touch him. We'll get Patil in there to have a look before we go around unplugging anything. Granger, be ready to initiate the spell. Mercer will be counting us down from five minutes. You got that, Doc?"

"Got it," Mercer said, as he prepared to set the timer on his wristwatch. "Just so you know, our lives are now in the hands of the Casio Corporation."

Hermione crouched down beside the conch. Five minutes was hardly enough time to perpetrate a daring rescue, but the conch was not designed for saving, it was designed to panic and distract the enemy. Defending your post was the last thing you were inclined to do when you suddenly found yourself suffocating in the dark.

It would give the team the advantage they needed to disarm the kidnappers. And five minutes was all the advantage they would have to work with, because anything longer would end up killing Amarov along with every other person on the boat without breathing apparatus. She knew Neville was thinking the same thing—how many times had the conch been used _without_ a time limit?

She pulled her mask over her mouth and nose and then touched her wand to the shell. "Alec, on my mark?"

"Standing by," Mercer replied.

 _"Vacuo_."

The lights went out as seven pairs of night vision goggles were switched on.

"Five minutes!"

* * *

There were twelve men and one woman on the trawler. They were a rather eclectic bunch, as kidnappers went. Some had the rough-hewn, ex-military look of guns for hire about them. Others were probably members of organised crime syndicates. The woman looked like someone's old mum who had been roped in to look after the men. The only thing they had in common was the belief that Alexander Amarov was worth considerable risk to life and limb.

They happened to share this belief with Richards.

"Four minutes!" said Mercer.

It was evident that the kidnappers had been expecting some kind of assault, but certainly not a magical one. It was one thing to be licensed by Secretary Beaumont to use deadly magical force, but it was quite another to be able to actually pull that off.

Hermione had no doubt that Richards could easily cast an _Avada Kedavra_ at full potency, but she suspected the rest of the team would face a similar experience to what had happened at Welwyn when Hermione attempted to euthanize Jason Lam.

As Malfoy had aptly demonstrated, the words alone were not enough.

_Once more, Granger. With feeling..._

"Three minutes!"

The six wizards and witches overcame the Muggles with ease, though the latter were neither hapless nor helpless. They had guns and they readily fired them, but it was patently a hit _and_ miss affair. Traversing quickly through the darkness, the team _Petrified_ anything that moved. This included a snarling Rottweiler that may not have been able to see Harry, but would have nevertheless ripped out his throat had he not caught the dog in mid leap.

"Two minutes!"

Hermione and Padma were the first to reach Amarov, who was most assuredly not unconscious. He was wheezing and thrashing just as the kidnappers had done before being _Petrified_. Hermione located the extra mask she carried with her in a pocket, pulled off the sack that covered Amarov's head and strapped the mask over his face. She knelt down beside him and used her wand to cut the plastic cables-ties that bound him to the chair. He was hyperventilating.

"Take slow, deep breaths," Hermione instructed. Through the sickly green of her night-vision goggles, she saw a gaunt, bare-chested man, far removed from the dashing figure on the cover of _Time_.

"He's _beeping_ ," Padma pointed out. "And there's a set of blinking lights just under his collarbone. I don't understand. I thought _Vacuo_ would have temporarily disabled anything electrical or mechanical? Do you see it?"

"I see it," Hermione confirmed. And she heard it, too. She squinted down at the tiny red lights from where the beeping noise was emanating, passing her fingers over the area. It was made of metal.

"Are you Alexander Amarov?" she asked the man they had just rescued.

He nodded in the darkness, brow furrowed.

"My name is Hermione Granger. This is a rescue, Mr Amarov. We'll get you out of here shortly."

"Thirty second!" Mercer told them.

"We have him!" Padma called out.

"Then stay there, we're coming to you," Richards ordered.

Now free from his bindings, Amarov stood and ripped the cables from his chest. Even with the mask on, Hermione was able to hear his grunt of pain. The beeping noise resumed, though seemingly less intense than before. As Amarov calmed his breathing, the beeping slowed, and in a matter of moments, ceased.

 _Vacuo_ had by now run its course. Power and air was restored to the trawler. The engine sputtered back to life. A stereo in the galley turned back on, and the laptop in the engine room re-booted. Amarov pulled off the mask and drew in a deep lungful of air.

The return of the lights brought back colour, improved depth perception and definition. Hermione now recognised the man from the magazine cover. Amarov was exceptionally handsome, although perhaps a more apt description was _pretty_.

He was tall and lean, with an almost feminine delicateness to him. There was more grey at the temples of his black hair now. His eyes were a deep azure and the roguish tilt to his mouth looked to be a permanent feature (or a permanent affectation).

It wasn't his face and form that had Hermione and Padma staring, however. It was the metallic panel embedded in the middle of Amarov's bare chest. There was an array of fine circuitry and a digital display which flashed various numbers at different intervals.

"What on earth is that?" Padma asked. "Did they do that to you?"

"No. Happily, this is all mine. It's my very effective insurance policy," was Amarov's cryptic reply in crisp, Oxford English. "I thank you for the rescue, ladies. Are your companions above-deck?" The lazy smile he gave them was completely ill-suited to the occasion.

Hermione had been about to ask what device in Amarov's chest was for, when Richards entered the engine room, closely followed by Harry and Mercer. He holstered his wand. "Agent Barnaby Richards, US Wizarding Senate."

There was a crumpled shirt lying in a corner of the room, amongst blankets and empty sardine tins. Hermione suspected this had been where the kidnappers had kept their hostage. Amarov pulled on the shirt (with some haste, Hermione noticed).

"So this is a _magical_ rescue," he said, as he buttoned the shirt. "I am the luckiest of Muggles. What have you done with my kidnappers?"

"We have them disarmed and contained upstairs."

Amarov stepped forward to shake Richards' hand. "Thank you for the rescue, Agent Richards. I'm not sure why you came to my aid, but I'm very grateful nonetheless."

"We're not in the altruism business, I'm afraid," Richards told him. "I'm assisting an international scientific team in devising a cure to the Infection. I'm told you may have an item we need. Saying we're on a tight deadline is putting it mildly."

There was less warmth in Amarov's voice now. "I see. And you've come to free me in exchange for this…item? What is it?"

"It's called the Kunlun Mystical Mountain Peach," Richards informed, impressively managing to say this with a straight face. "Our resident Magibotanist tells me it probably resembles a root or dried herb. The Peach is known for its longevity-affording properties, once properly processed."

"Do you know how to process it?"

"Do you _have_ it?" Richards countered, and there was more demand, less asking.

Something was _off_. Hermione couldn't put her finger on it. Amarov seemed almost too serene for a person who'd been recently kidnapped and possibly tortured. She glanced at Richards, noting that he wore an almost imperceptible frown. He too, seemed ill at ease in the face of Amarov's unusually calm demeanour.

"I believe I have what you need," Amarov said.

"Great. Then we can discuss it once you're off this boat. I'm assuming you'd prefer it if we returned you to your fleet rather than coming back with us to London first?"

"Yes." Amarov smiled. "I'd prefer that. If you'll find me a radio, I'll contact my people. They're close by."

"Where's Neville and Wallen?" Hermione asked, only just noticing their absence.

* * *

The crane on the deck had collapsed, assisted by years of neglect and the additional traffic moving aboard the trawler. Unfortunately, it had fallen over Wallen and Neville as they walked across the bow to retrieve the conch. The lycanthrope managed to jump well clear, but Neville had been caught beneath the heavy wreckage and suspected that his leg was broken.

"In three places, from the looks of it," Padma said. She gave Neville a sympathetic look. "I'll give you something for the pain, love, but you'll have to go back to Grimmauld Place to have it properly set. Aisha Malik can do it."

"Damn," said Neville, his face white and drawn with pain. He was also very put out. "Bugger this! I came along so I could be on hand to transport the Peach!"

"Better that you're in good shape to receive it when we bring it back, eh?" Mercer offered.

Neville grudgingly agreed. He asked Mercer to fetch him a broom, but Padma stepped in. "If it's not a dire emergency, I'd advise against Neville Disapparating anywhere while he's injured and sedated. And he certainly can't fly on his own. If he passes out on the way, he'll crash. It's pitch dark and it's not exactly a short walk back to London even if he could walk at all."

Amarov and Wallen joined the team on the deck, having accessed the trawler's bridge radio.

"Was he able to reach his people?" Richards asked.

Wallen nodded. "They're sending a cruiser now."

Richards addressed Amarov. "One of our team members is injured. Do you have any medical facilities on your fleet?"

"We have a dispensary, but nothing equipped to handle something like this," Amarov replied.

 _He was lying_. Hermione would bet her life on it.

There was no way a man as well resourced as Alexander Amarov would set out to sea without making sure he had everything he needed to wait out the Infection—and that included a clinic, at the very least. She had no doubt Richards had come to the same conclusion as well.

As if sensing her train of thought, Richards sent her a subtle warning look— _leave it._

"I'll take Neville back," Harry volunteered.

Richards appeared to consider this, eventually grunting his agreement. "Alright. Potter, do that. We'll regroup in London after we've acquired the Peach. Unless you have any objections?" This pointed question was directed at Amarov.

"None at all."

Once Padma had applied an analgesic charm to Neville's leg, Mercer and Richards gently lifted him and placed him astride Harry's broom. "Sorry about this," Neville told them. "I wish I had Wallen's reflexes."

"Don't sweat it, kid," Richards said, clapping him on the shoulder. Neville winced. "You did a good. All of you did real good."

Harry gave the team a jaunty salute, though his eyes were on Hermione as he mounted the broom in front of Neville. "See you in a bit."

She nodded at him. "Safe ride, you two."


	22. Occupational Hazards: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Project Christmas' loss becomes Amarov's gain. Draco and Hermione are reunited under decidedly tragic and bloody circumstances.

"So what do we do with them?" Hermione asked, indicating the _Petrified_ kidnappers.

They were lined up on the deck in various contorted expressions of panic, defence and fleeing. It was like looking at a wax horror museum display. Most of them had been armed, judging from their rigid, empty grasps. All their weapons had gone the same way as the buck knife.

"We do nothing," Richards said. "We're not law enforcement. Once we're off the boat, we remove _Petrificus_ and they can go on their merry, criminal way."

Amarov was not pleased. "I have to protest, Agent Richards. That's hardly justice, is it?"

"And yet that's exactly how it's going down," Richards told him, with narrowed eyes. "This is our operation, not yours. Now, if you'll excuse me, Wallen, Mercer and I are going to see if there's anything on this boat we can salvage." He shot Hermione a meaningful look before disappearing below deck with the two scientists. Padma and Hermione were left to mind Amarov.

Hermione watched as a disgruntled Amarov sat down on top of a pile of coiled rope. "Not much of a people person is he?"

He was barefoot, she noted. And it was very cold. She walked across to one of the kidnappers, spent a minute hazarding shoe size before divesting one of the _Petrified_ men of his footwear.

"He's trying to save what's left of people in general," Hermione replied, as she handed Amarov the shoes. "Here, try these on."

Amarov took the shoes. "Thank you." His gaze moved from Hermione to Padma. "She's obviously the doctor. Wallen told me he and the Australian are scientists. Richards is military. What are you, then, Miss Granger?"

"I'm whatever I'm required to be."

"I see," he said, and his stare was just a little too assessing, a little too lingering. Merlin help her, it reminded Hermione of Malfoy.

She didn't like Amarov, but apart from what seemed to be an over-abundance of charisma and chronic insincerity, she couldn't pin-point what else it was about him that made her so wary. Perhaps it was just his particular 'breed' of businessman. She didn't have any difficulty picturing a sleek-suited Amarov in the boardroom. Or a younger version of him, deftly persuading nervous investors to part with their money.

"You know, I have someone like you in my employ, a Jill of all trades. She's a mixed-blood. Very handy to have around. Are you of mixed-blood as well?"

It wasn't technically offensive to ask such a question, especially from a curious Muggle, but it was definitely impertinent. A quick glance at Padma's expression revealed she was less than impressed with Amarov's manners.

"No, Mr Amarov, I'm Muggleborn."

"Ah, I have some of those, too."

"Come again?" Hermione asked, with a frown.

However, any intended reply from Amarov was waylaid by the sudden illumination of the deck. There was the sound of another engine—not the sputtering tenor of the trawler, but a smooth, baritone hum. An enormous white cruiser came into view. The homely trawler was utterly dwarfed by the tall, vast and immensely bright boat. Hermione quickly informed Richards of the arrival of Amarov's people. The Russian billionaire stood, flanked by both Padma and Hermione, as a gangplank was thrown down.

Six men boarded the trawler—one of whom was enormous. He alone returned Hermione's wary gaze and it was the look of dread on his face wthat crystallised the nebulous worry which had been collecting in the pit of her stomach. All six men carried automatic machine guns.

The team's broomsticks lay in Mercer's holster, which lay on the other side of the boat.

 _Shite_. Plan B, then.

"Richards, we need to leave!" Hermione hissed over the comm. " _Right now!_ Forget the brooms!"

Padma—wonderful, stoic, brilliant Padma—did not even pause to question Hermione's judgement. She reached for her wand. Hermione's wand was already in her hand, the spell poised on her lips, but she would not leave without Padma.

It was unexpected that it would be Amarov who acted first. He didn't seem the type to get his hands dirty if it was something he could pay someone else to do. Perhaps he did it because he was closest and more in tune with the situation on the trawler? Either way, he grabbed Padma's wrist before she could wrap her hand around her wand, plucked the wand from its holster at her hip and threw it overboard.

Padma's despair at the loss of her original wand was nearly tangible. These days, it was rare that you still had in your possession the wand that Ollivander personally selected for you. Hermione and Harry certainly did not.

One of the men spoke to Amarov in Russian. Amarov replied and then laughed. He took a gun from the man and held the muzzle against Padma's neck, completely unperturbed by the fact that Hermione had her wand aimed at him.

"Not even a single-syllable spell in your arsenal is faster than a bullet," Amarov said to her. "But you're welcome to try."

Three of Amarov's men disappeared below deck.

"Richards, you have company!" Hermione warned.

Clipped orders from Amarov resulted in one of the men seizing Hermione from behind and ripping off her vest, helmet and ear piece. Her long hair escaped from its knot, falling down her back. The man holding her immediately wrapped his forearm around her hair and pulled hard enough to cause her eyes to water. One hand closed around her wrist, still holding her wand.

A random jinx, unfocussed and unintended, escaped her wand, firing a smoky hole into the deck. Her wrist was squeezed hard enough to shift bones. She cried out in pain as her wand was removed from her grasp and tossed overboard.

"Let us go!" she pleaded, "We don't want any trouble!"

"Oh, this is no trouble at all, Miss Granger. I assure you. I've been kidnapped before. This occasion has been the longest and most painful, but I would have been released eventually." He shifted his hold on Padma so he could lift his shirt to show them the metal panel in his chest. "Like I said before, my insurance policy." He didn't elaborate. Instead, he took Hermione's ear-piece from the guard who held it and spoke to Richards.

"Agent Richards, I know you can hear me. I urge you to surrender your wands and yourselves to my men. Do it or there won't be anything left to find of your two charming colleagues."

 _Don't do it_ , Hermione thought.

There was no reason why the other three members of the team couldn't just Disapparate immediately. Mercer and Wallen were too valuable to Project Christmas to risk losing. Surely Richards would take them home at the first hint of trouble? Richards wasn't like her and Harry, after all. Not soft, not easily swayed. Hermione reassured herself with the knowledge that the Cowboy _always_ kept the bigger picture in mind.

But perhaps not always…

Unhappily, she watched Richards and Wallen being led to the deck. Richards looked preternaturally calm. He had his arms up in the air, his wand, vest and helmet was gone. Mercer was limping behind them, sporting a bloody nose. His eyes immediately searched and then found Padma, in Amarov's grasp.

"You fucking bastard," Mercer swore.

"I cannot begin to describe how much of a bad decision this is, Amarov," Richards said, in an entirely matter of fact manner. "We're not here for profit or personal gain. If we don't deliver this cure, London is going to be wiped off the map by certain trigger happy Muggles in Washington. There's a countdown in progress."

"Not my problem, Agent Richards," Amarov replied, just as calmly. He appeared to be idly caressing the side of Padma's face with the muzzle of his gun. "And unlike you, I am in this for profit and personal gain. These are exciting times. Fraught with hazards, yes, but nothing like a little mayhem to get the blood going, don't you think?"

One of the other men rolled his eyes and said something in response, to which Amarov chuckled. "Ivan doesn't feel quite the same as me, unfortunately. My people have been worried about my well-being, seeing as it is so critically linked to the survival of the fleet itself. Use a little imagination, Agent Richards. Though I understand that might prove taxing for a military man such as yourself. The Infection doesn't have to be all doom and gloom. Think of the possibilities."

"You're mad!" Padma hissed.

"No, my dear. I'm a businessman," Amarov said, his lips at her temple.

"What is it you want?" Richards asked, drawing Amarov's attention back to him.

"Right now? I want your _witches_."

That clearly surprised Richards. "You can't have them, you sick son of a bitch."

Amarov shrugged. And then he raised his arm and shot Richards twice in the chest.

The shock was profound.

Hermione was no stranger to gun fire at close range, but this seemed louder. She _felt_ those shots—two big, punctuated blasts that reverberated through her nerve-endings.

Richards staggered backwards. Mercer reached for him, but ended up grabbing empty space. The Cowboy went over the low railing of the deck. There was a splash. The guard closest to Mercer hurried to look over the side of the boat. He shouted to the others in Russian as he ran up to the bow, still watching the water below. From the resulting commotion, it appeared that there was no sign of Richards.

Two other guards grabbed Mercer, who didn't take kindly to being restrained. He kicked one of them between the legs. The guard folded, his face turning purple. His colleague used the butt of a pistol to strike Mercer in the side of the head. Down he went, blood tricking from a cut at his temple.

Wallen exploded. He wasn't their soft-spoken, shy, microbiologist any more. The man named Ivan attempted to hold him, not anticipating what was to come. Hermione was well aware of the supernatural strength of lycanthropes. She had seen it up close and personal. It was still two weeks to the next full-moon, but this in no way diminished Wallen's abilities. He reached for the hand that grabbed him. His other hand took hold of Ivan's elbow, twisted it and _pulled_.

It was possible to hear the sound of snapping tendons and breaking bone. The man's arm came off as easily as a leaf plucked from a tree stem. Blood spurted in sharp pulses, pouring out onto the deck. Ivan hadn't so much as whimpered through any of this. His eyes bulged as he took in the ragged stump of his shoulder. He looked to his comrades, his mouth open and closing like an oxygen-starved fish. Besdie him, Wallen was still holding the severed arm, a fact which seemed to render the maimed Ivan all the more incredulous.

The largest of the guards, the one with the anxious eyes, was the only one with the presence of mind to approach Ivan. He used his large hand to clamp over the wound, stifling the blood flow and then shouted a question to Amarov.

But Amarov was wholly occupied dealing with Wallen. So occupied, in fact, that he released Padma.

The first bullet caught the lycanthrope in the shoulder. The second and third, in the legs. Padma ran towards Mercer. One of the other men panicked and began to fire at Padma, at Mercer, at Wallen, at anything that approached.

Hermione could feel the nervous tension in the man who held her. She took advantage of his lapse in concentration by slipping her hand into one of her pockets and removing her pepper spray. The spray hit him full in the face. Her own eyes streaming, she broke free.

It looked like Wallen was about to collapse. He was bloodied and panting. Hermione originally intended to go to him first, but the trajectory of the gun fire soon nixed that idea. Instead, she threw herself into Padma and Mercer, knocking them to the ground just as a hail of bullets seemed to fly right over their heads. Several of the _Petrified_ kidnappers were struck. One fell over, resembling a toppled, macabre mannequin. Blood from his wounds slowly seeping out onto the deck.

Someone shouted and then the gunfire stopped. Hermione lay on top of Padma. Wallen was alive, but just barely. Amarov was now staring at Wallen with what could only be described as stunned glee. It was probably the first genuine emotion he'd sported since they'd rescued him. Not far from Hermione, one of the guards was dead, a victim of friendly fire.

His weapon lay in between Amarov and Mercer.

Both men took note of this. Amarov wasted no time in aiming his gun at Mercer and pulling the trigger.

 _Click_.

The chamber was empty.

"Alec!" Hermione screamed. "Get the gun!"

The two men lunged for the weapon, but Mercer was quicker and nearer. He skidded to a halt in front of the gun and snatched it up before Amarov could reach it.

"I'm going to fucking kill you!" Mercer seethed. But the shots that were fired—three of them, in quick succession—were not from Mercer's gun.

The gun fell to the ground, followed by Mercer. Amarov quickly kicked it away. Padma's scream was loud in the new silence. She scrambled out from under Hermione and ran to Mercer, nearly slipping on the bloodstained deck.

The large guard who had shot Mercer lowered his weapon. Unlike his colleagues, he looked far from pleased at having to use it. An immensely relieved-looking Amarov held his arm out to the guard, who promptly handed over the weapon.

"Thank you, Anatoli. I owe you," Amarov said, a tad breathless.

"Alec!" Padma gasped. "Oh Alec, what have you done?"

"I didn't bloody do it," Mercer protested weakly. His hands were clutching at his chest. "That guy _shot me_."

"Let me see…" Padma peeled his hands away.

"Shit," said Mercer. His breathing was short and shallow, no more than gasps. "So much for gelato."

Blinking through her tears, Padma pulled off Mercer's gloves and held his hands. She looked at Hermione, biting her lip, and then turned to address Amarov. "Mr Amarov, I'm a doctor! I can save him! I can help you and your people. You said you lacked medical expertise in your fleet! Alec is one of the finest neurobiochemists in the world. You can use him. He's even more valuable than I am. _Please_..."

"No, pretty witch," Amarov said to her, and he actually sounded regretful. "He's really not. Not to me. I have my own experts. Now, do move away."

Padma's eyes widened. She shook her head and then protectively clambered over Mercer.

" _Move away_ ," Amarov ordered. He put his foot on her shoulder and pushed, but Padma held on.

Mercer coughed up blood. He was stark white now. "Patil," he wheezed, "do as he fucking says."

Hermione wracked her brain. There was nothing… Merlin, she couldn't think of _anything_. No timely flash of inspiration. No handy distractions. No harrowing last minute heroics by Harry. A fog of despair descended over her, or perhaps just a normal fog. The lights got dimmer and the night got darker. She was shaking. Mercer was going to die. No. Nonononono. Hermione hated that she knew this with such certainty.

But Padma's fate was not so certain.

She held out a hand to her friend, swallowing back the tears. "Padma, come here..."

" _No_."

"Listen to her," Amarov said. "Let me put the wizard out of his misery."

"He's not a wizard!" Padma spat. "He shouldn't even be here! He's a Muggle, just like you!"

Amarov's gaze hardened. For a moment, he looked almost manic. "He is _not_ just like me! There is no one just like me! Do you understand? Now, get out of my way, _witch._ " With this very real anger, came a loss of control. The refined accent wavered. In that moment, he was indeed a lunatic.

Mercer's voice was whisper thin now. His eyes were at half-mast as his hands batted at Padma's. "Go to Hermione. Stay together."

And still Padma refused. Unexpectedly, Anatoli intervened. With blood-soaked hands from where he had been tending to Ivan's wound, he plucked Padma off Mercer. She turned feral, twisting and kicking, but he easily held her.

"As always, Anatoli, I appreciate your timing," Amarov muttered. He then aimed the gun at Mercer's head. "No hard feelings, Doctor. I honestly have nothing against Muggles."

With great effort, Mercer raised a trembling hand, the back of his palm facing Amarov. It took him longer than a moment and clearly Amarov was indulging him, but eventually Mercer's fingers curled, leaving only the middle finger extended.

"Touché," Amarov said, before he pulled the trigger.

* * *

They pushed the _Petrified_ kidnappers into the sea. If anyone had ever wondered about the buoyancy of the human body under the influence of _Petrificus_ , here was the answer—you sank like a rock.

Without knowing for certain the extent of Amarov's sadism and his obvious anger towards the people who had captured him, it was simultaneously the worst and best possible way for the kidnappers to die, Hermione decided.

The night had not gone well for any of them. Amarov had lost one man. Ivan was wounded, perhaps mortally. Richards was gone, Mercer was dead and Wallen….

"What _is_ he?" Amarov asked Hermione.

Felix Wallen was alive. Hermione wanted very much to keep him that way.

"He's a werewolf," Hermione replied, listlessly. She was still seated on the ground, back propped up against the railing. And that, apparently, was the right answer, because Amarov ordered Anatoli to bring both Ivan and Wallen to someone called 'Dr Prestin' for immediate treatment.

Padma was hauled to her feet by one of the men and was instructed to assist the aforementioned Prestin. Hermione didn't know how that was going to work, considering Padma was in no shape to do much of anything. Mercer's blood hadn't even dried yet on her clothing.

It wasn't until Hermione was ordered to stand, did the rest of them realise she'd been shot.

Amarov scowled as he lifted her. "Getting shot ought not to be an occupational hazard in your line of work, Miss Granger," he told her, almost in a scold.

"You don't know my work," she hissed.

He stared down at her, bemused. Hermione stared back, wishing she had a wand so she could give him a personal demonstration of her miraculous, newly developed mastery over _Avada Kedavra_.

And then they moved her. The searing pain was her undoing. 

* * *

"She's in shock," someone said. A male voice, deep and mature. It reminded her of Richards. Thinking of Richards now made her chest clench. "Why wasn't she taken to Prestin? She needs urgent attention! We are scientists, not surgeons!"

"Professor Belikov," said another voice, just as troubled as the first. "Amarov brought her here himself! Dr Prestin is operating on two others. Amarov says we are to save her—"

"Amarov says! Amarov says many things! And he says he wants this girl alive. I say that I will not be responsible for hastening her death! I have not held a scalpel in forty years! Is there no one else?"

"We are asking anyone who can help!"

A door opened and then shut, causing a mild draft. There were many voices this time—more than Belikov and the other. She heard the snap of latex gloves and a moment later, she could smell the gloves as a hand slid over her cheek and down her neck. She felt fingers at her pulse point.

The deep voice again—Professor Belikov. "When was the last time you performed surgery, young man?"

"Not since medical school. And only on cadavers."

"Cadavers?"

"I should tell you that I never finished because I never actually attended. On the books, anyway. But I have steady hands, Professor. Guide them."

"She's awake."

A hand slid into hers. She clung to it, knowing whom it belonged to even before she opened her eyes.

Hermione really ought to have been surprised to see him. She ought to have been astounded and perplexed and angry and suspicious. But as a tear escaped the corner of her eye, and as she felt the warmth of his hand, evident even through latex gloves, Hermione was immensely relieved.

The relief was twofold. It stemmed from the fact he was alive and well, and because he was one of the best problem-solvers she knew. She was a problem, shot and bleeding as she was, and he would solve her. Draco Malfoy was looking at her with a mixture of anger, fear and such unexpected tenderness that yet more useless tears came.

"Why can't you stay where I put you?" he whispered.

She felt cold. Oh no, not this again. She remembered Welwyn and was afraid of that memory.

The bottom half of her body felt like it'd been dipped into a vat of ice. Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but Malfoy was now speaking to someone else in the room. No tenderness in his expression or tone now, he was _working_. There was a jumble of different voices and noises; plastic packets opening, the occasional metallic _klink_ , and also the smell of antiseptic.

"—watch for hypovolemia. Monitor her blood pressure."

"It's upwards of 100bpm—"

"Move her further down."

"Gently! There we go—"

And Malfoy's voice swam in and out again, clipped, quick and all business. 

"I've just contacted the games ship," Belikov informed. "They will send gelofusine. And voluven. I am not sure which we shall need!"

"Why are you here?" she eventually managed to croak out.

Malfoy was looking at her, frowning. She felt his hands at her belly. She'd been shot in the stomach, which was rather bad news. Ah, well.

"Amarov keeps me here now," he said.

"And Honoria? Where is she?"

"Honoria has been his creature all along."

_You know, I have someone like you in my employ, a Jill of all trades. She's a mixed-blood. Very handy to have around. Are you of mixed-blood as well?_

"She stole you from us," Hermione surmised.

Amazingly, he smiled at her in the middle of whatever it was he was doing. It was a very warm smile, but it was just as complex as the look he'd given her when she'd opened her eyes. Hermione was impressed with his ability to multi-task emotions.

"Yes, Granger. Honoria stole me."

"You didn't want to go, though."

"No, I did not." He turned away and the smile disappeared. "Where the hell is the hemocue?"

Oh God. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Harry and Padma had been right. Honoria had forced Malfoy to go and Hermione hadn't even wanted to consider that fact. She'd written Malfoy off, abandoned him. If it had been Harry or Padma who'd been taken, she would have moved heaven and earth to get them back, no matter how suspicious the circumstances. It had been different with Draco. She'd been so scared…scared of what it would mean if he left with Honoria only to keep them all safe. Draco Malfoy didn't do things like that. Draco Malfoy was the bully from school. Son of Death Eater. _A Death Eater_. A killer and a criminal. He'd killed Ron. Yes, perhaps out of necessity, but he wasn't a good person. He wasn't one of them and therefore the same rules of trust and loyalty didn't need to be applied _for_ him.

Right? _Right?_

Hermione wept. So much for her level-headedness and good judgement. He'd done right by them even though he knew Scrimgeour's bargain had not been unbreakable, and she'd failed him in return. And all because she was scared of her own sodding feelings.

"Draco, I'm sorry…"

Malfoy didn't hear her. Someone was telling him something that was making him angry. He spoke in Russian this time. That's right—he'd told her during their Hogwarts jaunt that he was fluent. She blinked up at him, wondering what else she didn't know, taking in random details that in that moment, mesmerised her—the white shirt he wore with the sleeves rolled up and stained with blood (she was forever bleeding all over him), the hair that was only just long enough to tuck behind his ears, the particular expression he wore when he was focused on a task.

And then she felt his hands gently slide under her shoulders. "Granger, we need to move you to a different table. It will help if you hold your breath when I shift you, alright? On the count of three. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"One, two—" he looked across the table to the other person that was helping him lift her "—three."

It wasn't going to hurt, she wanted to tell him. Because she felt nothing below her—

Hermione screamed. Suddenly, her entire lower half seemed to switch back on. The pain in her abdomen was searing and moving up and down her torso in ripples. Heat replaced the cold. It seemed that with the return of sensation came the pain of memory and purpose. Now was _not_ the time to go down the rabbit hole of self-pity. It was essential that Malfoy know exactly what happened, because knowledge was currency. Just in case…just in case she couldn't tell him later. She held on to the pain, held it down with a shudder and used it to keep the fog at bay.

"We tried to rescue. Amarov. It was executed flawlessly," she said, through gritted teeth. If she sounded defensive, she was. The intel from the American Wizarding Senate had been sound. They had been well equipped and Richards had prepared them. What happened was _not_ Richards' fault.

"Apart from Neville having an accident and breaking his leg, it all went to plan. Harry's not here because he took Neville home first. Thank Merlin or they might be dead right now. We didn't know… Malfoy, we had no idea that Amarov would do this. Why? Why is he doing this?"

He didn't reply. He was cutting her clothing off now. She could hear the scissors and feel the cold steel glide across her breastbone. And then she felt a wet, antiseptic swab. A trolley with a wonky wheel was being pushed around.

"He killed Richards. And Mercer…"

Briefly, she saw Alec Mercer's smiling face, before it was replaced with the look he gave Padma just before he died.

Hermione swallowed. "They took Wallen. And Padma. Malfoy, please say you'll find them?"

An older man came into view. White coat. Bald, bearded and with kind eyes. Belikov, she presumed. She liked him already.

"We're ready for surgery."

 _But I'm not ready_ , she thought. Malfoy read her mind. He bent down to her, close enough that his silver-grey eyes were all that filled her field of vision. His thumb danced across her cheekbone.

"Remember when you gave me your wand at Welwyn?"

He was clever to reassure her with that memory. Something experienced, tried and proven. He wanted her to remember that she had trusted him that much once.

"Granger, _answer_ _me_."

"Yes, I remember."

He nodded, and then his hands were a pale blur as they passed over her face and an oxygen mask was pulled over her nose and mouth. Half a breath was all it took.

She bid farewell to the fear and chaos, and slept.


	23. Awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione learns more about Amarov's fleet, its various horrors, and Draco's place within it.

_"Let us go. We don't want any trouble."_

That was the last decipherable snippet of audio they heard from Hermione. And before that, had been her desperate, final warning issued to Richards. Some kind of scuffle broke out, where it sounded like Mercer had been injured. But it mustn't have been too badly because there was plenty of cursing and trash-talking before Mercer's end of the communication system went dead. Someone had taken his ear-piece.

And then there was radio silence from Richards, Wallen _and_ Hermione.

If it wasn't for the communication system, Harry and Neville would have been none the wiser about what was transpiring on the trawler. Both men were still wearing their ear-pieces when Hermione's frantic voice literally stopped them in their tracks.

They hung in mid-air now, hovering over the water. Neville's broken leg stuck out at a forty-five degree angle to the broom. And thank goodness for it, too. Had they been more streamlined and aerodynamic, Harry would have made more considerable progress in their journey back to London. The strong, head-on wind had additionally slowed them down.

"It's all static! I can't make it out," Neville was saying. Frowning, he tapped at his ear-piece.

"Shhh," Harry ordered, holding up a hand. He blinked, trying to make sense of the garbled noises coming through the system. He even held his breath. Damn it, they were too far out. The voices were soft; sentences came in bits and pieces.

_"You're mad."_

That registered loud and clear. It was Padma. So far she seemed to be the only one who still retained her communication system. Amarov or whoever was perpetrating the attack on the team had evidently forgotten to take it from her.

_"Oh Alec, what have you done…."_

Neville had progressed well past pale. He was grey now. He stared at Harry. "You need to go back."

Harry was about to reply when they heard Padma again.

_"He shouldn't even be here! He's a Muggle, just like you!"_

Harry had never seen Neville so panicked, and arguably, he had some experience in dealing with an extremely panicked Neville Longbottom.

"Harry, go! Just go!"

God damn it, he wanted to. He wanted to leave Neville on the broom and Apparate back to the trawler. It would be easy. He could do it.

But no, he really couldn't.

"I can't leave you, you git! If you faint or fall, you're doing to freeze to death in this water!"

"They're being attacked!" Neville shouted at him. "Hermione, Padma and the others! You go to them. I'll Apparate back to London and get help." And with that, Neville reached for his wand, but Harry grabbed his wrist.

"Listen to me, Padma said you're in no state to fly. And if you can't fly, you certainly cannot bloody Apparate! You'll splinch yourself. Or worse, you'll splinch the wards at the house and you'll leave everyone in it open to attack from the Infected."

Neville's mouth open and closed, fish-like. "What...Merlin, what should we do?"

Padma's screaming came through the communication system. She was shouting Mercer's name. And then abruptly there was nothing but static. They had now lost all communication with the team on the trawler. Mere minutes had passed since the first sign of distress from Hermione, but clearly, the unthinkable had just happened.

The wizards sat astride the broom, stricken for a moment.

"We're going back," said Harry, bringing the broom about. "We're _both_ going back."

He received no argument from Neville, who gritted his teeth as he untied Padma's splint from his broken leg. Harry watched, wincing when Neville bent his injured leg into the proper broom-riding position, in line behind Harry. Neville then tied his ankle to the back of the broom, just above the bristles. Now, they were streamlined.

"Ffffuck," hissed Neville, who was undoubtedly in all kinds of agony because he _never_ swore. He was shaking from head to toe and his hands now gripped Harry's back so tightly, it hurt. "Let's g…go"

"Hang on, mate," said a sympathetic Harry.

Back in first year, Oliver Wood had once clocked a reckless young Harry flying so fast on his little Nimbus 2000 that the twenty-year old School sprint-flight record was undone.

On this day, that record was once again left for dust.

* * *

Harry leapt from the broom before it came to a complete stop, wand in hand. His agility was always impressive to Neville, but in that moment, it was Harry's fortitude for which Neville was most thankful.

"Stay astride!" Harry called out as he inched around the side of the boat, making his way to the bow. The water was choppy now and the boat lurched back and forth. "You'll have more manoeuvrability on the broom!"

Neville was staring in horror at the bobbing bodies of two Petrified kidnappers. They were about twenty or so meters from the boat, carried away by the current. Neville scanned the horizon. There was no sign of a fleet, which meant that a smaller, faster vessel had likely been involved.

"Who do you think did this?" Neville called out to Harry. "Could it really be Amarov?"

There was no reply from Harry. Concerned, Neville lowered the broom, flying just above waterline. He found Harry near the bow.

Harry was standing in blood. Most of it was already coagulating which meant that the soles of his boots made gruesome imprints as he walked. A man's severed arm lay beside the collapsed crane. It wasn't the neat severing of a machete strike. Rather, it looked like the arm had been twisted and wrenched out of its socket. There was only one person on the Project Christmas team who was able to do that. And it was dire news indeed if Felix Wallen had felt desperate enough to use the strength he laboured so hard to suppress.

But none of these details were as gut-wrenching as the sight of Alec Mercer's body.

"Oh no…" Neville whispered.

Mercer's black shirt was darkly stained across his chest, but it was the gun-shot wound in the center of his forehead that made Harry clench his shaking fists. The Australian scientist lay with his hands folded across his stomach, his head was pillowed upon a rolled up piece of clothing. Harry crouched down next to the body.

"Padma's jacket," Harry said, his voice flat. He didn't look at Neville when he spoke. "Wait here, I'm going below to see if anyone else is still…here."

Neville could not speak. He swallowed and nodded, instead. Harry disappeared into the pilot house, his boots making a sticky noise as he went. Neville turned the broom about and proceeded to fly around the perimeter of the boat. He wanted very much to vomit but managed not to. It was no consolation that close, personal contact with zombies had managed to strengthen his constitution over the past few months. That was experience no one wanted and everyone could do without, thank you very much.

He assumed they would need to check if any of their team had met the same fate as the kidnappers. And he simply would not leave that task entirely up to Harry. So Neville flew up and over the trawler, scanning the water. When he was satisfied there were no other bodies adrift, he began counting the bodies that snagged in the rigging which trailed along and behind the trawler. It was curious to feel regret when he saw the shocked, frozen faces of the drowned people, but there was also relief at the same time, because he did not recognise any of them.

It was when he added 'Body Number Five' to his tally, did he find his voice.

"HARRY! _HARRY_!"

He didn't wait for Harry. Neville dove-broom, broken leg and all-into water that was so cold it felt like a thousand icy needles were piercing his skin.

When Harry found him, Neville had already managed to untangle Agent Barnaby Richards from the nets.

* * *

It was thirst that did it. For a while, she drifted in a neutral place where her senses occasionally registered light or muffled sound. Eventually, however, her thirst forced her to awaken. Her tongue felt as dry as cardboard. She sat up against mismatched pillows. One pillow was more of a cushion—covered in floral jacquard with red piping. Wherever she was, it was clearly not meant to be the medical treatment center of Amarov's fleet. There was nausea and dizziness, but it was not overwhelming. It was almost a disappointment not to be afforded at least a few minutes of disorientation, which would have given her time to acclimatize to…well, _things_.

So many things.

Hermione was cognisant of the fact she was on a ship in Amarov's fleet, and perhaps in some kind of scientific laboratory, seeing as the site had not been fully prepared to treat patients. She was wearing what she assumed was a white nightdress that seemed to consist mostly of frills and flounces. It was huge, but it was clean and made of cotton. It would do. It was pointless to avoid inspecting her wound—the gunshot was not going to go away for lack of pondering over it and neither were the stitches, which she now examined after spending some time undoing the tiny buttons of her nightgown. The stitches were neat and the light pink entry would was sealed and healing well under sterile, sticky, latticed dressing. To her right was an IV stand. Antibiotics and fluids, she supposed. Speaking of which…her monstrous thirst compelled her to scan the metal trolley beside the bed. It contained gauze, tape and other medical supplies, but no water. For a moment she fantasized puncturing a hole in the IV bag and sucking out its contents.

There was a screen separating her sickbed from the rest of the room. If there were people in the laboratory, they were being very quiet. She contemplated calling out for assistance, but decided that she felt well enough to go for a bit of a wander. There was also the fact that she had no idea if the natives were friendly.

Experimentally, Hermione wiggled her feet under the blanket and then drew her knees up. Everything worked fine. All systems were operational, except for the fact a bullet had recently ripped a hole through her belly and people she cared about were dead. There was still some pain in her stomach, being both sharp and dull at same time. If she concentrated hard enough, she could locate a different sort of pain altogether—grief. It swirled and bubbled like molten rock, somewhere deep inside her. It would not do to tap into that pain, for now. Painkillers were clearly still at work, dulling more than just the hurt of her wound. She was thankful for that.

Hermione slowly brought her bare feet to the floor, thinking how odd and squashy they felt against the laminate and after what she assumed were many days of being horizontal. After a few fortifying breaths, she walked to the supplies trolley and used it for support. There were no suitable weapons, not even a pair of scissors.

She picked up a packaged syringe from the trolley and lamented the fact that amongst all the frills of her nightgown, there did not seem to be any pockets. An experimental wriggle confirmed that she was indeed sans underwear within which she might stash a weapon. Hermione ripped open the packet with her teeth and uncapped the syringe. It would accompany her as she explored her surroundings. Despite the calming apathy induced by the medication she'd been given, she still felt afraid. Anger surpassed her fear, however. There was a particular kind of anger that came with helplessness. It was made of resentment, hate and a feeling of profound, acute, soul-burning injustice.

She gripped the syringe tightly in her first and stepped around the screen.

It was indeed a laboratory and it was about five times the size of the one at Grimmauld Place. There was enough fancy equipment to give Padma happy heart palpitations.

_Padma_. Where was Padma? She had to find out.

"Hello," Hermione called out, her voice was thin and raspy so no surprise that no one came running out to meet her. No guards, no scientists. It seemed odd that she'd been left alone, but when she thought about it, there really wasn't anywhere she could escape to, was there? She was on a ship in the middle of a fleet that was ruled—likely with impunity—by Alexander Amarov.

There were two things that stuck out in the modern, white laboratory, but Hermione's attention was temporarily captured by the large stainless steel fridge recessed in the wall to her immediate right. Clutching her middle, she limped towards it and prayed that it was not used to house specimens and perishable medical supplies.

She opened it and wanted to weep when she saw the microwaveable meals, plastic wrapped food of every description, fresh fruit individually encased in stretchy foam and unopened, boxed slabs of bottled water. Without further ado, she took out a bottle, opened it (grunting in pain when she realised that abdominal muscles were somehow involved in this process) and drained half its contents in four Olympic-sized gulps. The water was cold, sweet against her chalky tongue and the best thing she'd tasted in her life. When she had had her fill, she screwed the cap back on and then pressed the cold bottle against her forehead.

Her gaze settled over the stack of folders she recognised as the ones Honoria had taken from Grimmauld Place. Dog eared, faded, mustard yellow folders that stood out amidst their modern, white and steel surroundings. Ah, so _this_ was a rival team, intent on beating Project Christmas to a cure. Hermione wanted to laugh. If only they'd asked, Scrimgeour would have shared the information. It wasn't a bloody competition. The whole concept was _insane_. Who would think to profit from the solution to the Infection?

Amarov. He was…

He was the key to getting the cure to the public in time for the Wizarding Senate's Christmas nuclear deadline. Project Christmas had already lost too many of its key players. Amarov was capable of seeing the cure become a reality. He had a team. He had Malfoy, Padma and Merlin only knew how many others captive in his floating social experiment. Hermione didn't realise she was crying until one of her tears landed on her bare, right foot. She wanted to kill Alexander Amarov. It was a rare feeling for her. Not since Voldemort had she harboured such acute hatred.

The second thing that stood out in the laboratory was something else that had been stolen from Project Christmas, more or less. Hermione instantly recognised Seamus Finnegan's Azkaban maximum security cell design. And she knew that only one other person was intimately familiar enough with its construction, to recreate it.

Malfoy had clearly assisted in creating the cell in the western corner of the laboratory. The construction was bespoke, judging from the mismatched metal girders that lined the corners of the cube and the welded, steel-enforced glass panels.

Safety glass, surely. Because what lay inside the cell was not there by choice.

It moved. And the irony of that smooth motion was not lost on Hermione, who could only walk in a slow shuffle.

The zombie in the cell was not ordinary and quite unlike most of the ones Project Christmas had previous encountered. It was sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing away from Hermione, hunched over, focused on…something.

Hermione placed her palm against the glass and leaned in closer to look.

The thing—the girl (no more than five or six)—turned its head very slowly. It stared at Hermione, blinked and then crawled quickly towards her. The item the zombie had been holding dropped to the floor. It was a raw marrow bone, liberally covered with tiny gnaw marks. There was a split on one end of the bone and the stale marrow, looking like yellow cottage cheese flecked with bits of dark red, had begun to spill out.

Crouching would have proved too much of a challenge and so Hermione simply sat. The zombie child watched her and then carefully mimicked her actions. A minute later, they were seated on the ground, watching each other, separated by several inches of glass.

The creature was in excellent condition, apart from the fact that clumps of its wheat-blonde hair had fallen out and suppurating sores had developed at the corners of its mouth. Milky blue eyes watched her with curiosity. There was a doll in the cell. It was probably the most horrifying aspect of the setup. Hermione wondered if the toy had belonged to the girl before she'd been Infected, or if one of the scientists had given it to her. Either way, it lay on the floor, ignored. The bone was the prized possession.

"Her name is Eloise Withinshaw," said a male voice. "But Malfoy calls her 'Bitey'. She goes mental if she doesn't have something in there to chew on..."

Hermione spun around to face the voice, utterly stunned to find that it belonged to Blaise Zabini. She recognised her old Hogwarts classmate immediately. Being rather genetically blessed, he hadn't aged very much since she'd last seem him, during those final bedlamic months at Hogwarts. Here, he was dressed in baggy slacks and a long-sleeved maroon and grey checked shirt. It was Zabini at his most unkempt. Beside him was a man Hermione recognised as the enormous guard who had boarded the trawler with the rest of Amarov's men. This was the same man who had shot Mercer in the chest to save Amarov's life. Hermione was instantly wary and began backing away along the floor, holding the uncapped syringe aloft.

Zabini dropped to his haunches, holding up his palm in a placating gesture. "It's alright, Granger. Anatoli is…he has an understanding with Desmond, Malfoy and I."

"Does that understanding extend to murdering innocent scientists?"

Anatoli scowled at her. "You put gun in his hand. He carry gun. He shoot." The guard shrugged. "I shoot back."

Hermione turned away, not wanting either of the men to see how upset she was. Anatoli was correct. And Padma had been right all along—it'd been folly to bring Mercer on a combat mission. They had indeed put a gun in his hand. If blame was a cake, Hermione knew that she, Harry, Richards and Scrimgeour deserved several slices. When she had composed herself, she addressed her next question to Zabini.

"How long have I been out of commission?"

"You've been in and out of consciousness for two weeks. Give me the needle. In your state, you're going to fall over and stab yourself."

Grudgingly, she handed over the makeshift weapon. Zabini immediately tossed it to Anatoli.

"Are you being held here as well?" She was aware that 'Bitey' was crawling along the floor inside the cell, following Hermione, almost frame for frame. The zombie child bared her teeth in a little snarl, before attempted to bite at the walls of the cell. Its teeth made painful clattering, scratching noises against the glass. Zabini and Anatoli must have been used to this spectacle, because they hardly spared it a second glance.

"I am. As is my son," Blaise replied. "There are about a thousand other wizarding captives."

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. She allowed Zabini to help her up to her feet. He motioned quickly to Anatoli, who brought a wheelchair from a corner of the room. On shaking legs, Hermione gratefully climbed into it.

"Are you alright? It would be no trouble to fetch someone."

"I'm fine, thank you. I'm just a bit more unsteady then I thought I'd be."

"It was silly of you to leave your bed without calling for help. Anatoli would have heard you. It's his shift at the moment to watch over the labs. I was just dropping by to seek some Muggle pharmaceutical assistance for my insomnia."

Hermione pushed her hair out of her eyes. She was still processing what Zabini had told her. "Are you really saying that Alexander Amarov is responsible for abducting that many magical people and holding them here against their will?"

Zabini smiled a very cold smile. "He has help, but ultimately yes, he's responsible."

"What in Merlin's name does he want with so many of us?"

"For amusement, for labour, for experimentation." And with that, Zabini pointed to Bitey. "Eloise fell ill with a normal Muggle infection. She was considered too sick to be saved, so Amarov had her deliberately Infected in order that we would have something in this cell to study."

Hermione stared at the zombie, at what _used_ to be a wizarding child, somebody's baby. " _My God_."

Zabini snorted. "That's what Amarov aspires to be, no doubt. Here, he has the final say on who lives and dies."

"Where is Padma? And Felix Wallen, our colleague?"

"Fortunately for Patil, medical doctors are like gold around here. Amarov's got her doing rounds, treating the Muggles in the fleet. Your lycanthrope friend recovered a week ago. He's being kept in isolation, in the hold."

"What will happen to him?"

Zabini hesitated for a moment. He looked at Anatoli, who shrugged. Hermione had no idea what that meant.

"There are...entertainments," Zabini explained, his voice losing some of its earlier aloofness "About every week or so, they pit wizarding citizens against zombies. I imagine adding a werewolf into the mix would be quite something."

Hermione blinked. "These are war crimes," she whispered. "Surely someone has said this to Amarov?"

Zabini sighed. "Thank goodness that you're here, then, Granger. You'll be able to explain to him the error of his ways. Admittedly, Amarov's been very complacent of late. The only reason he even managed to get himself abducted recently was because he was lax with his security."

There was so much of Malfoy in the way he spoke. _Slytherins_ , Hermione thought. They were all the same snooty peas in a pod.

"Are you a scientist as well?" Hermione asked. She didn't mean to sound so incredulous.

"Goodness, no. Amarov tolerates me because I assist the fleet by procuring supplies. And I only have this position thanks to Draco's quick reflexes and even quicker thinking. Speaking of which, would you like to see him?"

"Malfoy?"

Zabini blinked. "Yes, _Malfoy_. Unless you'd like Anatoli to wheel you directly to Amarov's quarters instead, so you can personally tell our deranged Messiah that you're all better?"

"Sod off, Zabini," Hermione muttered. It was amazing. They were seventeen years old again.

His smile defrosted a little bit. "Come on, let's go wake the dragon."

* * *

There was luxurious and then there was the ship Amarov lived on. Actually, maybe luxurious wasn't an apt description. Anatoli pushed Hermione in the wheelchair along carpet so thick that the wheels of the chair made tiny, temporary trenches as they rolled along.

_Opulent_ was a better word. Also, _gaudy_. Anything that could be gilded, was gilt-covered. If a piece of fabric was study enough to take a tassel trim, it was tasselled, and then some. Hermione tipped her head back, looking past Anatoli's surly expression to stare at the ceiling because maybe, ah yes, there it was—a _painted_ ceiling featuring half-naked Ruben-esque women resignedly swatting away swarms of cherubs.

Zabini must have sensed her train of thought. "This is the ship that good taste abandoned."

"Not to mention sanity, morals and ethics…" she felt compelled to add.

He shrugged. "Those things, I can take or leave."

They entered an elevator and Zabini hit the number '2' button. Apparently the labs were housed in the bowels of the ship. Up they went, and quickly too. Hermione felt her insides unpleasantly lurch just before the lift came to a halt. The painkillers were a blessing.

Malfoy's room wasn't very far from the elevator. They went down one dark corridor, turned a corner and there they stood before two enormous, carved wooden double-doors. Hermione mentally replaced the word 'room' with 'quarters'. Suddenly, the idea of Desmond the butler didn't seem so ridiculous anymore.

Zabini bent down to speak to her. "Like everyone on the fleet with an actual job to do, he's overworked. But because he's Draco, he's _especially_ overworked. We breathe sighs of relief when he does manage to get some sleep, so let's keep all this down to a dull roar, yes?" Blaise Zabini's bedside manner was almost as bad as Malfoy's.

"I'll try to restrain myself," was Hermione's deadpan reply.

That at least earned her a slight tilt at the corner of Zabini's mouth. He opened the doors and bid Anatoli goodnight. "Come back just before six," Zabini said. "That should give us enough time to get her back to the lab."

The guard gave Hermione one last glare, and then lumbered away into the darkness of the corridor.

"He doesn't like me."

"It's not you, it's what we're _doing_. You seem to be Amarov's latest distraction du jour. Right now, we're effectively playing with Amarov's favourite toy, without asking."

Malfoy's room was mostly dark; the only light came from a single lamp on a table beside the bed. She was surprised to note that Zabini and his son were sharing a room with Malfoy, though you could likely sleep an entire Quidditch team in the quarters, if necessary.

A tiny person occupied the long lounge, hidden under a mountain of blankets. All Hermione could see was the top of his dark head. Her attitude towards Zabini immediately softened. Beside the lounge was a foam mattress on the floor, bearing several pillows and a large quilt. It was haphazard, but looked quite comfortable.

"Home sweet home," Zabini said. He was halfway across the room to his sleeping son, when Malfoy spoke.

"What the hell is she doing out of bed?"

It was amazing how simply hearing his voice still managed to startle her on some level. It was alien to her and ironically also so familiar—a voice she'd heard every day for seven years; refined, precise, always slightly condescending.

"She left her bed of her own accord," Zabini replied. "Anatoli and I found her having a bit of a moment with little Eloise."

Hermione heartily wished they would start referring to her by her name. She was right _there_ , after all.

Malfoy rubbed the heel of his palm into his eyes. "I've told you not to call her that."

"You also said not to call her a 'her'."

"Don't call _it_ Eloise. That thing we're keeping in the lab is _not_ human."

"Neither are _you_ after four days of double shifts," Zabini said, icily.

"He used to do the same thing at Grimmauld Place," Hermione muttered.

Both men looked at her, as if surprised to find her still there.

"Anyway, I thought you two might like to catch up, given…recent events," Blaise gently scooped up his sleeping son, blanket and all. He did this in a single motion, careful not to jar the boy. The child remained fast asleep, his cheek now pillowed against his father's shoulder.

"What's his name?" Hermione asked.

"Henry Miles Greengrass Zabini," Malfoy answered, and there must have been some private joke between the two men, because Zabini actually managed a brief smile of authentic amusement.

"Thank you, Zabini."

"Don't mention it," Zabini said, "but be ready to receive Anatoli at six. He'll take her back to the labs before the next lot of grunts start their shift."

Malfoy glanced at the digital clock on the bedside. "Three hours. Plenty of time."

At this, Zabini looked slightly troubled. He glanced at Hermione and then back at Malfoy, his hand still protectively placed against his sleeping son's back. "Malfoy, it behooves me to remind you that she's in no state to do anything but chat and sleep."

Hermione wondered if she should be relieved that she seemed to have enough blood left in her to manage a raging blush.

"Fortuitously for Miss Granger, I am in a similar state," said Malfoy, "but I thank you for reminding me of my unchivalrous tendencies."

"Where will you take him?" Hermione asked Zabini, inclining her head to his sleeping son.

"There's a lounge and a fold-up bed in Belikov's office. The guards use it occasionally. We'll put down there for the night. I'll see you two in the morning. Well, _later_ in the morning."

Zabini and little Henry left, the doors closing behind them with a soft _swoosh_ against the carpet.

Hermione remained seated in the wheelchair, beside the bed, uncertain how to proceed and unsure what to say. For a moment, it seemed that Malfoy was much the same. But he eventually resolved their dilemma by simply lifting up the covers and holding them open for her. There was no need for preamble.

It was an expansive bed. She crawled across to him; barefoot, in her frilly nightgown, with crazy cat-lady hair and smelling like three kinds of antiseptic. Malfoy has apparently fallen into bed earlier than evening still wearing blue jeans and a plain, white t-shirt. He was a furnace. Hermione wondered how she hadn't realised she'd been freezing earlier. The pleasure of that heat, even if it came with only an illusion of safety and security, was intensely heady. She shuddered, fitting into him as if their assorted shapes and angles were designed just so. There was a minor issue. His belt buckle was digging into her lower back. She shifted once, and then again. On the third move, he grunted, slapped a quelling hand on her hip and sat up. Malfoy undid the buckle with one hand, and then pulled the belt free, tossing it to the floor. It landed on the carpet with a dull _klink._

Neither of them was very relaxed after this, however. Not in body or mind. She felt it in the taut weight of his arm around her, which ought to have been heavier than it was, and heard it in the way his breathing was shallow and measured. It was reassuring to know that the tension was mutual.

"I'm going to find us a way out of this," she announced.

There was silence. And then, "Continue."

"Amarov has some kind of interest in me. Morbid, most likely, but I wasn't left for dead and he seems intent on making me well again."

"To what end, one wonders?" Malfoy wondered, although the question sounded mostly rhetorical.

"Nefarious ends, I think it's safe to say." There was no point beating around the bush.

"And how do you plan to get one up over him, _Kiska_?"

That endearment, not heard since their relatively happier time together with the team at Grimmauld Place, brought a small lump to her throat. She recalled the advice Richards had told her many weeks ago, about capitalizing on Malfoy's interest in her. About _using it_. She had balked at the suggestion then, but now contemplated if the same move could be played against Amarov. Would it even work? If it could help their situation in even the smallest way…

"If I play my cards right, he may allow me access to people and places in this fleet that others cannot readily get to. Blaise says there are about a thousand of us. That's a small army. We have options, but they've always been too risky. Anything we can do to increase those options must be attempted."

His arm grew slightly heavier around her and his hand had commenced stroking circles into the small of her back. "And if he decides to keep you in a cage for his own personal and private amusement?"

Hermione had considered this of course. She was not one to put herself in danger lightly. The payoff had to outweigh the risks. Otherwise she might as well be Harry.

"In Amarov's mind, the fleet _is_ the cage. He's complacent. He thinks he's untouchable, but the mere fact he was kidnapped is proof that he's as vulnerable as he allows himself to be. Blaise also mentioned that Amarov was only taken by those mercenaries because he got careless."

"He will never trust you."

"He doesn't have to. He just has to believe I'm no threat."

"You are many things, Granger. Meek and compliant are not among them."

She tilted her face toward him. Given that the lamp light was directly behind him, only the outline of his face was visible. "You know well enough how it goes—we become what we need to be."

"And never what we want to be."

"Desperate times," she whispered. It was all kinds of inappropriate to feel like she felt right then. Not when so many people depended on them for the cure. Not when her friends were dead, Padma and Wallen held captive for Merlin only knew what. There were in the midst of such terrible danger, and yet…

It had to be the drugs—allowing certain baser instincts to surge to the fore when she was less able to assign them a much, much lower priority. Compartmentalising was difficult at the moment. She looked at the shadowed, dark curves of his mouth. She wanted to taste this exhausted, complicated man. More than just the heat of her blush spread across her body, pooling low in her belly, and lower still.

"Given your association with Potter, I'd say half of your life comes under the heading of 'Desperate Times'."

She felt his voice reverberate through her body. His hands were at her abdomen, she could feel the warmth of his fingers even through her nightgown.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking your dressing." His lips moved against the corner of her temple. His beard was scratchy. "It's due to be changed later today. I'm pleased you're up and about, though it was foolish of you to come and see me now. Rest ought to have been your first priority, especially if you're hoping to enact this plan of yours."

"Blaise mentioned I've been out for almost two weeks. That's enough rest."

"Recuperation, then."

"You don't think much of my plan, do you?"

He unbuttoned two buttons of her nightgown, over the stomach, and slipped warm fingers inside to run along the edge of the dressing. Hermione shut her eyes.

"On the contrary, the more time you spend with Amarov, the more we're likely to know about this device he's using to hold an entire fleet hostage. But more to the point, it will be your best chance to stay safe. Any time spent outside the main holding cells, is time well spent. There is one problem, however."

These were no longer the hands of a doctor. Certainly not _her_ doctor. His fingers now stroked the soft skin of her belly, his rough-padded thumb skimming over the rim of her navel. So much for the Hippocratic oath.

"What's the problem?" Good. At least her voice was working.

"Know what it is you may be required to do. Put that brilliant mind of yours to the task of imagining what Amarov could possibly want with you. And understand that for you to enact this plan, _I would have to allow it_."

Ah. They'd arrived, inevitably, at the big, pink, woolly mammoth in the room. Or at the problematic chapter in the metaphorical book of Hermione's life, entitled, Feelings and Other Mushy Non-Practical Stuff.

"Amarov said there aren't that many witches being held in the fleet."

"There are enough," Malfoy clarified.

That confused her. "Then I'm not quite sure why he has an interest in another ordinary witch?"

"Ordinary," he snorted. It wasn't a question and not quite a comment, either. "Granger, some lights burn brighter than others, and it's a unique kind of happiness to be around that. The best of us feed that light and our reward is to continue to enjoy its glow. Those like Amarov, however, they are like Muggle hunters who go on safari to hunt the biggest, most challenging game. They are collectors of experiences and trophies. For them, it's about mastery."

"Malfoy," she began, unable to keep the smile out of her voice, "am I the safari game in this analogy? Or perhaps a fluorescent light bulb?"

He rapped his fingers over her hip. She supposed this was what passed for disgruntled.

"Do you have a better plan?" she asked.

"Of course, but I cannot tell you."

"Even if it means your odds of success increase if you enlist more people you trust to help you?"

"Trust is too freely given."

"In your world, maybe," she muttered.

"We live in the same world now, _Kiska_."

"Does this plan of yours put you in danger?"

"We are all of us in danger as long as Amarov commands this fleet."

Hermione tensed against him. Malfoy swore. It was odd hearing Muggle bad language coming from him, but she guessed he'd picked up a thing or two in his travels.

"So _that's_ the plan," she said, soberly. It was hopeless pretending she didn't know now.

He was angry. "Damn it. Did I mention I am severely sleep deprived? I have had to add caring for an invalid to my many other duties in the laboratory. You are not to discuss this with anyone, do you understand? No matter how much you _think_ you trust them."

While she was not privy to the details of his plan, the big picture made complete sense. The fleet was _not_ the enemy. In fact, it was probably the world's most useful asset at the moment. Remove one man. Preserve the fleet. And then the asset belonged to the people.

"You are very clever, Draco Malfoy."

"I know. Not that it makes you listen to me, most of the time."

"Thank you for saving my life, again."

"Belikov did most of the work."

"When I see this Belikov, I shall thank him, too," Hermione said. "And I'm sorry about what happened when Honoria took you."

"I heard your apology already, Granger," he said. "There was not much to be done about it, given the circumstances."

"Yes, but I didn't look for you."

"It's because I didn't give you any reason to want to look for me."

She stared at him. "You were what we needed you to be—the villain. And you insulated us from Honoria, that time. But not now. Now you need to be something else entirely." She placed her hand against his cheek.

His hand wrapped around her wrist, the grip slightly too hard. "I may not be the homicidal maniac in this story, but make no mistake, I am not Harry Potter. So I suggest you disabuse yourself of any foolish notion of my redemption," he said. "If I had the means to do it, I would take you from this place whether you wished to go or not. I would leave your friends. I would leave Zabini and his little boy. I would abandon the chance of creating a cure. And I would do this without a second glance back, without a second thought. I would see this entire fleet sunk to the bottom of the sea, with innocent Muggle women and children, and all our fellow wizarding citizens still aboard. I would do that if it meant we could walk away, unconditionally. These are my priorities. I am not Amarov, but that does not make me one of _you_. I will _never_ be one of you."

Silence followed this minor outburst. Hermione rolled away from him, and he let her. They lay on the bed together staring at the ceiling (thankfully cherub-free), not touching. She heard his sigh and thought she could detect contrition in that small noise. If she learned anything from this encounter, it was that they were both completely crap at talking about their feelings, even when their lives were at risk.

"You should save your time and energy for someone more suited to you," he eventually said. It was as close as he was going to get to actually acknowledging their strange relationship.

Hermione took stock of her situation. Currently in recovery from a near-fatal gun-shot wound, she was lying in bed with Draco Malfoy, on a cruise-liner controlled by a modern day Caligula, while all the world outside was battling to survive a zombie apocalypse.

"When all this is over, perhaps I might try online dating?" she said, blandly.

"Perhaps," he replied.

More minutes of uncomfortable silence went by, and her eyelids began to droop. She felt him draw the sheets up higher over her.

"Are you in much pain?" the tone of his voice suggested that 'Dr Malfoy' was back.

"No."

"Try and get some sleep. I'll wake you when it's time to go."

There was too much to do, too much to discuss and think about. She blinked rapidly, trying to stave off the sleepiness.

He was psychic. "There's time for all that later. Go to sleep."

* * *

"Granger, wake up."

Malfoy's hand was on her arm. All the lights were on, so it took a moment of blinking, squinting and pushing her hair out of her face before she could sit up and see anything. She _really_ needed to brush her teeth. He'd showered and changed into a darker set of clothing. His wet hair was slicked back and the stubble she'd felt against her face hours ago was now gone. Hermione suspected he'd left the bed as soon as she'd fallen asleep. Oh dear, Zabini was going to be cross with her for stealing yet more sleep from the dragon.

"Anatoli is waiting outside to take you back to the lab."

Hermione was insanely thirsty again. And now her wound was hurting. It _throbbed_. She winced as she swung her feet off the bed. Malfoy appeared at her side with a glass of water and two white tablets. She didn't bother to ask what they were. Mumbling her thanks, she took the tablets. The glass of water was drained before she gave it back to him, wiping the back of her hand against her mouth. She spied the wheelchair in the corner of the room.

"I can walk now," Hermione said, her voice croaky.

"No, you cannot." He pushed the chair over to her and Hermione found she was too sore and exhausted to argue with him. He left her in the chair and went to open the door. Anatoli, who seemed to have grown even bigger since she last saw him, entered the room. It was no surprise when he scowled at her.

"Hello," she said, because as her mother liked to declare, manners cost nothing.

"If Amarov know about this, we are all dead man," Anatoli complained to Malfoy. "And dead lady."

Malfoy spoke to the guard in Russian. Anatoli replied in kind. They went back and forth for another minute or so, before a cranky Anatoli threw his ping pong paddle-sized hands in the air and wheeled Hermione out the door. There was only time for a farewell glance at Malfoy, who wore a slight frown.

Hermione waited until they were in the elevator before she asked Anatoli, "What did he say to you?"

"Weezard ask stupid question."

When it became clear he was not going to elaborate, Hermione raised her eyebrows at him.

Anatoli sighed. "He ask me if you will be safe with Alexander."

"And?"

Anatoli's answering expression as he stared down at her was a perfect blend of resignation and incredulity.


	24. Windows of Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco, Anatoli and Blaise begin a secret effort to assist the fleet's wizarding prisoners. Padma helps Draco dispose of a body.

**12, Grimmauld Place, London**

At first, there was only one; the lonely, lurching, almost comical zombie in the red hoodie and board shorts. He'd become a benign, familiar sight, a conversation item. A safe little oddity in a world that had become so odd, it was unrecognisable.

But then a week ago, one became _three_. And then there were a dozen.

Every day, one member of Project Christmas would keep watch from the attic window, writing down the comings (there were no goings, when a zombie came, it _stayed_ ) and their associated behaviours. Today, it was Harry's turn. So far, there wasn't much to report apart from a great deal of creepy staring. They seemed to know the location of the attic window and at the moment, twenty-one pairs of Undead eyes were trained at that exact spot.

"It's their stillness that's the worst," Harry said, as he and Scrimgeour observed the horde that currently stood outside the Grimmauld Place headquarters. The city streetlamps had long since stopped working, but there was enough moonlight that night to show off the group, in all their skin-crawling glory. "I'd say it's time to send out a welcome party. Either kill them off or clear them off."

The Minister disagreed. "I'd rather not give them any window of opportunity. Every time we leave the house, every time we so much as crack open a door, the veil created by our wards causes a shimmer that ripples across the house. Now, as you know this is not meant to be visible to Muggles. Therefore are we certain these must be _wizarding_ zombies?"

Harry nodded. "Hermione and Malfoy came across some pretty compelling evidence at Hogwarts, and if there ever was a prime location to find any, it would have been the School grounds and Hogsmeade."

"If they recognise this house as a magical abode, then they know it's possible to gain entry if a doorway is left open long enough. The wards will not be able to distinguish between one of _us_ leaving and one of _them_ entering."

"Or if enough of them force entry at the same time…" Harry added.

"Yes."

"But how can they _know_?" Harry asked. "That requires realising both them and us are magical, and organising themselves to the point where they attempt to storm the place!"

"These are questions only Dr Mercer might have answered," Scrimgeour replied.

"We should never have brought him along…" Harry said, in a quiet voice. This was not the first time he had raised the issue and he was not the only person to think it.

"We do what we must, Potter, Mercer knew the risks and I believe Dr Patil made a point of spelling them out for him in fine detail. Whatever the rescue team encountered on that boat, it was as unexpected as it was disastrous."

The absence of the formidable combined brainpower of Mercer, Padma, Wallen and Hermione was like a punch to the collective gut of Project Christmas. They weren't just winded, they were effectively _crippled_. And the more Harry thought about it, the more he realised that this had been Honoria Cloot's mission all along. The goal had been sabotage, the prize had been the cure.

Dr Kate McAlister was all that remained of the original bank of experts and she was working around the clock, surviving on tepid Red Bull and Mars Bars. Ginny assisted their only remaining nurse, Aisha Malik, as she cared for the unconscious Agent Richards and the mending of Neville's broken leg.

"Is there any change in Richards' condition?"

The Minister shook his head. "Miss Malik will let us know as soon as there is. He's stable for now, and exceedingly lucky. Had Longbottom not found Barnaby when he did, he would have most certainly perished in the water."

"We lost Mercer," Harry began, "but the others are alive, sir. I know it. _I feel it!_ Is there still no news from the Senate?"

Harry was desperate to send out a search party to look for Hermione, Padma and Wallen. Scrimgeour was adamant he would not send another member of the team out into the unknown. He touched the younger man on the shoulder. "The Senate is not responding, Potter," he said, quietly. "There is no one on the other end to accept the Floo link. They may have had to abandon their posts."

"Merlin, are we the only government team left?"

"It would seem so. The Project Christmas deadline and the refugee communities around the UK are all that stands in the way of an unrestricted weapons strike by the US. And if McAlister doesn't come up with something workable soon, I'd say the destruction will be imminent and warranted. We may have to start readying survivors for evacuation."

" _Where to_?" Harry demanded.

Scrimgeour had no answer for him.

* * *

"Hmm," Draco said. He was looking through a microscope. Beside him stood an anxious, Professor Belikov.

"Well?"

The younger man straightened up, tucking an errant lock of hair behind his ear. His hair was just long enough to tie (which he did) but some of it still managed to escape and get in the way.

"I believe the technical term is _Eureka_?"

Belikov beamed as he thumped Draco heartily on the back. "Then we have indeed perfected ReGen! We must tell Amarov that the addition of the Kunlun Peach extract worked just as anticipated!"

"I'd keep this breakthrough to ourselves, if I were you," Draco advised.

"Why?"

"Keep it on a need-to-know basis."

Belikov wasn't listening. "We could even tell him that D.R.A.C.O is complete and ready for human trials!"

Draco shot him an incredulous look. "You mean _lie_ about cracking the cure? Why on earth would you want to do that?"

"Think about it, Malfoy! He could permit the inoculation of the wizarding captives. If he thinks they are safe from being turned, he may deposit them back on the mainland. They are a drain on his resources, there is no reason for him to keep them if he doesn't need to!"

"Yes, but they _wouldn't_ be safe because the serum isn't ready yet. It would be a farce."

"Alexander does not know that. We are his experts. If you back me up and verify the findings, how will he know we are lying? They have a better chance off that ship than on it!"

"He'll _know_ you're lying because that's what he's good at. You cannot lie to him, Vadim," Draco admonished. "This is a ridiculous idea that's going to get you killed. You are not to attempt it, do you understand?"

Belikov had been about to respond, but was interrupted by Anatoli entering the laboratory, closely followed by Blaise.

"Kit up, Malfoy! We're going on a field trip," Zabini announced. It was the most animated Draco had seen him, in days.

Draco removed his gloves. "Where to?"

"You know how we discussed sneaking essential medicines to the captives? Well, by Merlin, we have our chance tonight!"

Anatoli nodded. "Bring the medicine and come quickly, weezard. There is a small hole of opportunity!"

"A, uh…what, now?" Belikov inquired, blinking behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.

"I think he means a 'window of opportunity'," Blaise clarified. "A 'hole of opportunity' is what happens after Pansy Parkinson's had one too many hits of Goyle's dorm room moonshine.

Draco was already raiding the supply cupboards, throwing drugs and other items into an open bag. He turned and raised an eyebrow at his old school friend.

"Oh, don't you play the blushing schoolboy with me, Malfoy. My nerves may be shot, but my memory is pristine, thank you very much. I believe she was trying to make you jealous at the time?"

"A gentleman does not kiss and tell," was Draco's half-hearted rebuke. When the first bag of medicine was full, he began filling another.

"From what I recall about Pansy, kissing was never the highlight…" Blaise muttered.

Draco threw an empty bag to Blaise. "Give me a hand, will you? What else would they need?" he addressed this question to Belikov.

"Anything and everything," answered Belikov. "Antibiotics, antiseptic, sterile gauze, bandages, insulin, Ventolin, pain-killers…"

"Food," added Anatoli.

This succeeded in dampening the otherwise high-spirits of the men. "You heard him," Draco said. "Bring everything that's not going to be missed."

The four men ended up with two large bags of medicines and four boxes of food, clothing and blankets. Blaise made a quick trip to the room he shared with Draco, returning with a small Tupperware of _Star Wars_ legos that Anatoli had sourced for Henry.

"Won't Henry miss that?" Draco inquired, conversationally.

"Henry will make do," was Blaise's curt reply.

"Exactly how are we being afforded this alleged 'window of opportunity'?" Belikov whispered to Blaise, as the men made their way down the dark hallway, to the elevator. They would need to catch a shuttle to the _Morning Star_ , where Amarov kept his supply of zombies and magical captives.

"It's a full moon tonight," was Blaise's cryptic response.

They exited the ship through a side-door, an emergency exit through which Anatoli had already unfurled a braided, nylon rope-ladder. "Careful," Draco said, as Blaise and then Belikov climbed down first into a waiting dingy. Draco and Anatoli passed down the bags and boxes.

They pushed off, making a beeline for the games ship— _The Morning Star._ The water was calm that evening, though there was far too much moonlight reflecting off the surface, to put them at ease. They were silent as they rowed, avoiding the smaller vessels, lest they be spotted.

"Do you think she made it?" Draco asked, after a time.

Blaise had been trailing his fingers in the frigid, black water. "Are we still talking about Pansy?"

"Yes."

"I don't know, but I hope so."

* * *

Getting on and around the _Morning Star_ was matter of ducking past patrols at the right time. This was made possible because there seemed to be only a skeleton crew on duty. Each of the men carried a receptacle of supplies, making it somewhat difficult to be stealthy. Thankfully, there was no great need for that.

"Where on earth is everyone?" Belikov asked Blaise, as they climbed the metal staircase to the partitioned cargo hold. "There are usually three times as many guards on this ship!"

The answer to that question came in the form of a long, deep howl that seemed to travel the length and breadth of the vessel.

"Wallen," Draco said. He stared at Blaise. "You said it was a full moon tonight?"

"That is it. Big as a saucer."

Blaise led them down the stairs and past a deserted control room. The lights were on but there was nobody home. He gingerly opened the door, wincing slightly as the hinges creaked. Inside, there were two swivel chairs, dog-eared copies of Penthouse and other similarly intellectual fare, and a great deal of junk food wrappers.

He pointed to the numerous security monitors. "The captives are being held two floors down, starboard."

Indeed they were. The footage on the first monitor revealed an enormous cargo hold that resembled a medical triage facility. There were hundreds of people crammed into the area. Mobile screens divided the hold into sections. Some people slept in cots. Most had sleeping bags and blankets on the floor. Draco could practically smell and taste the foulness in the air just from looking at the inhumane set-up.

There were eleven other screens, each of them numbered, and Blaise explained that they were looking at locked rooms that had been turned into containment cells and other restricted areas. One showed the Pit, looking disarmingly innocent while it was devoid of its audience and combatants.

Screen number two was black.

"Where's this?" Draco said, tapping the monitor.

Blaise peered closer. There was a faded, peeling sticker label on the monitor. It was in Cyrillic.

Belikov put on his spectacles and squinted at the label. "That says 'Dead Zone'. It must be where they keep the creatures. So in relation to the Pit, the Dead Zone is two floors below the captives, and must feed directly into the Pit."

Draco filed that information away. He stared more closely at the screen. It looked pitch black, but when you observed it for long enough, it was possible to discern movement in the darkness. "Let's do our best to avoid blundering into that room, shall we?"

"No arguments there," Blaise said.

"Someone is coming!" Anatoli warned. He'd been stationed at the door to the room. "Go down!"

The men crouched low behind the bank of monitors. Belikov pointed to the box of supplies he'd left on the desk, which would be clearly visible to anyone who happened to glance in from outside the room. Draco shook his head and put his finger to his lips.

Thankfully, the footsteps continued past the security room, stopping at what must have been an espresso machine further down the hall. There was a brief sound of hissing steam and the clinking of a spoon in a ceramic cup. Then the footsteps returned and kept on going.

Anatoli crab-walked to the door to have a look outside, he gave them a thumbs-up gesture.

Observing the monitors once more, Blaise pointed to number seven. Here was the answer to the mystery of where all the guards had gone. You couldn't see Wallen in the room, but it was apparent that his transformation to Lycanthropic form, sans Wolfsbane Potion, had been an anticipated event. There were metal bars in the room and there were men standing at the bars, cavorting and carrying on.

"There must be thirty people watching," Draco said. They weren't just watching. Two of the guards held what looked like cattle prods. Others were hurling projectiles. They were baiting Wallen and having a raucous time doing it.

As harrowing as that sight was, it was the tenth monitor that now caught Draco's attention.

"Zabini, quickly, where is this?"

Blaise blinked down at the screen. He immediately understood the urgency. "That looks like the clinic Dr Prestin used to treat the captives before Patil took over. It's on the floor below us, down the corridor, parallel to the one just outside this room. Take a right, and then it should be either the first or second room. I'll go with you."

"No, you know this ship like no one else here. You need to lead the others," Draco said to Blaise. He handed the satchel and box he'd been carrying to Anatoli. "Will you be alright taking all this to the hold?"

Anatoli nodded.

"Draco, _quickly_ ," Blaise said, still frowning at the screen. "And be careful."

"I'll meet you back at the dinghy. If I'm not there in an hour, leave without me."

* * *

It had been a mistake to come to the treatment room by herself, even if it was to fetch more salt and glucose powder to make a new supply of hydration fluid. There were several young children with dysentery who would not survive the week without it. Nevertheless, Padma wanted to kick herself for being so stupid.

As it happened, the guard called Igor was doing most of the kicking instead. And slapping. He'd been a smarmy presence from her first day on the _Morning Star_. The other guards mostly just stared—all the young women in the hold had received similar attention—but Igor…well Igor just had to be a bit more _ambitious_ , didn't he? It was mostly just groping and frequent close encounters on the stairs, but Padma honestly did not think he'd be foolish enough to try anything that might injure her. She was one of only two medical doctors in the entire fleet.

"Pretty girl," he crooned, "come here."

Padma wiped the back of her hand against her split lip. She grabbed the first thing she could reach, which happened to be a bed pan. "You're making a big mistake."

He laughed as he began to undo his belt buckle, the hideous gold watch at his wrist catching the meagre light in the room. "No mistake. Come and give Igor a kiss, pretty witch."

Igor was drunk. That was the problem. Well, apart from probably being a bloody, serial rapist. All the other guards had been waiting for poor Wallen to turn. It was all she'd heard them talk about for days. They'd brought vodka and a disturbing bloodlust that night. Igor was the end result of all that excitement.

"I'm a doctor, you idiot! Amarov stationed me here to see to these people, and to treat you and your colleagues if you need it! What do you think he's going to say when he finds out about this?"

"Amarov is not care."

He was wrong, but there was no reasoning with the man. Padma sucked in a fortifying breath. It was always easier in your head. You imagined what it would be like if someone actually tried to hold on to you and you imagined yourself kicking, biting, and inflicting all kinds of damage. But reality was very different. Drunk, short and unfit as he was, Igor was still quick and three times a strong as her. The enamel bedpan she brought down on his head only succeeded in making him furious. He grabbed her around the midsection when she tried to feint past him and flung her against the wall. Padma's forehead smacked into the concrete and she stagged backwards, dazed. He seized the opportunity to wrap her long hair around his forearm and used that leverage to drag her to the examination table. Padma found herself flung down unto the metal table. Meaty, imprecise fingers began pulling at her clothing.

"No…" she said, clawing at his hands. Her nails were short, but she still managed to rip strips off his skin and was rewarded with a dull grunt of pain. He cuffed her against the side of her head. Padma bit his hand just before he retracted it. A punch to the head was coming. She anticipated it. Through blurry vision, she saw him pull his fist and she instinctively brought her forearms up to protect her head.

The blow never came and the crushing weight and stinking breath of Igor disappeared. She heard an almighty crash, which she suspected was Igor sailing into the empty metal shelving at the opposite end of the room. When she sat up to have a look, her saviour was utterly unexpected.

Draco Malfoy may as well have been wearing his Death Eater's mask, such was the look on his face.

"Hello, Igor. Long time no see."

The guard staggered away from the shelves, looking apoplectic to see Draco there. He was too angry for English, so what followed was mostly in Russian. Threats and profanities, most likely. A few bits of English slipped through, though. There was the old stalwart, "Fuck you!" and the always charming, "Cunt!" Padma wondered if Igor knew that these were the last words he would be speaking, because there was no way Malfoy would let him leave that room to report on what had transpired.

"You poor, sad, son of a bitch," Draco told him. He advanced on Igor, ducking his head to the side to avoid the fist that came at him. Draco's superior height allowed the perfect angle for a downward stomping blow of his booted foot to Igor's right knee. The patella must surely have cracked from the impact. The guard let out a keening, high-pitched scream and keeled over sideways like a felled tree. Draco stood over him. "Of all the bad decisions you've made in your wasted, pitiful life, this one deserves to be recorded for posterity, so others like you may learn from it." Draco hauled him up by the front of his shirt and then turned the sputtering Igor around to face Padma.

"Now pay attention, Muggle filth. I know it's hard because your brain is so very small and your indifferent, drug-addled mother probably dropped you on your head a few times, but do _try_ to keep up."

Igor attempted to struggle free, so Draco rammed his knee up into the middle of the other man's spine, causing the guard's face to go stark white. He was winded from the pain. Draco seized both his arms into an arm-lock behind his back, and shook him briefly.

"I said, _pay attention_."

The struggling stopped and a stricken Igor had no choice but to look at Padma, mouth gaping.

"What do you see before you?"

"A…a witch," came the wobbly reply. He was weeping now.

"Close," said Draco, and there was a smile in his voice. "What you see here, you insignificant pile of pig shit, is a direct descendant of the Pratihara Dynasty, and the kings and chieftains that came before. Padma's bloodline is purer than my own. Her ancestors negotiated the terms of trade and passage through the Khyber in the time of Darius, while yours were busy fucking livestock and decorating paddocks with boulders."

"I am sorry! I am sorry!" Igor bawled. Maybe he was not so dumb after all. " _Please_ …"

"You are _more_ than sorry," Draco said into his ear. He pulled harder on Igor's arms and the man cried out. "A woman such as this is _not_ for you. _Never_ for the likes of you. But I imagine no other female will have you either, will she? So you decide to use force, to terrorise and injure the only person that might have saved you."

"S-save me?"

Draco brought both hands up to Igor's head and twisted it sharply. There was an unpleasant crack and the dead guard slumped to the ground. He stepped over the body and held his hands out to Padma. She stood a little straighter, tossed her waist-length hair over her shoulder and accepted his assistance off the examination table. Igor was spared barely a glance. Draco had always found Ravenclaws to be easily as resilient as Slytherins, though closer to the Gryffindor side of righteousness than was practical.

"I'm good, but I doubt even I can bring a man back from the dead."

Draco shrugged. "Call it overkill."

Padma groaned at the black humour, but then she looked serious. "What are you doing here, Malfoy? If they find you, they'll kill you. And when they find _him_ , this whole place will go into lockdown."

"You're welcome," he said. A chair was dragged forth and Draco asked her to sit down. "I'm here with a small group of helpers. We've brought supplies. Tilt your head back, let me get a look at your face."

The scene was reminiscent of when Padma had cleaned up Draco following his fight with Harry, though that felt like a lifetime ago.

"Ow," said Padma, when Draco prodded at her lip. He looked at the empty shelves for something to treat her cut. There was nothing to be found—not even plasters. "Looks like we're bringing the supplies just in time."

Padma pushed his hands away and stood up. "Please don't worry about me, I'll survive. Oh, Malfoy, I cannot tell you how much we need the medicine! Or how thankful we are!"

"You can thank me by helping me find a place to dispose of _that_ ," Draco said, indicating the body.

* * *

A dead body was a tremendously heavy and inconveniently-shaped thing to transport down laddered hatches and through maintenance passages where a fully-gown man had to crouch to get through. Draco probably had about two inches on the average, fully-grown man. He managed to hit his head about three times. Padma led the way, while Draco alternated between carrying, pulling and pushing the deceased Igor.

They must have been approaching the ventilation shafts above Wallen's cell because they could now hear huffing and snarling, as well as cheers and hollers from the guards. Padma winced at yet another angry howl from Wallen.

"Is there anything to be done about that?" Draco inquired.

"Not unless you think you can take on about thirty-six guards." She looked at Igor. "Minus one. They won't be foolish enough to hurt the main attraction at the next games," she said. "I've already told Amarov that werewolves have no natural immunity to the Infection, so if Felix does go into the Pit in Lycanthrope form, it's likely he'll get bitten and then they'll have to kill him. So if they want him to continue being their resident circus freak, they're better off not making him fight zombies at all."

"So they'll just have him transform for the audience, once or twice a month?"

Padma nodded. "Like a pre-show event, I suppose. But they've missed the boat this month," she said. "Unless there's a second full moon tomorrow, Wallen's safe for another month."

They continued crawling along the shaft, eventually coming to a junction. A right turn took them to a large storage room with shipping containers. All were empty except one, which oddly, had been welded shut. They opened a ceiling grate and dropped Igor first, before climbing down. Padma crouched down to clean up the small, bloody smear Igor had made on the ground.

"These are sometimes used to bait and catch zombies," she explained, touching one of the containers. "But at the moment, the creatures are all kept in a storage vault up ahead. It's locked, obviously. But we can get in through the ventilation ducts. Once inside, we should be able to deposit the body right into the middle of a feeding frenzy. I doubt the crew will even find his bones."

Draco looked down at the dead man's large, gold watch. He removed it and put it into his pocket. "They might find _this_. Not even the Undead have such bad taste."

Padma laughed, though it was the sound of exhaustion tinged with hysteria. Draco looked at her. "You've done a remarkable job here. It hasn't gone unnoticed by the members of the fleet who still care about what's happening."

"Do people really care?"

He nodded. "I had help coming here, didn't I?"

"How close are you to a cure?"

"Very close." He told her about the breakthrough with ReGen.

"And how is Hermione? I heard she made a full recovery, but there are all kinds of crazy rumours going around. They're saying that Amarov's been keeping her with him in his room, on the mother ship."

"She's as well as can be expected. And thankfully he is _not_ keeping her with him. She has her own quarters just above my own."

"Have you seen her? Face to face, I mean?"

"No," he lied. It would not do to burden Padma with secrets that could be taken from her by force.

"If you do see her, tell her….tell her that Felix and I are fine and not to do anything rash."

Draco thought about the situation to which Padma would be returning, and about what Wallen was being subjected to. It was a good thing he was adept at telling lies.

* * *

It took them almost half an hour to reach the optimum position above the Dead Zone. The stench of the place was enough to make their eyes water. Positioned above, inside the ventilation ducts, they carefully removed a grate and peered down below. It was dark. There was no light in the hold, but Draco had brought his own. He removed a flashlight from one of the pockets of his trousers and shone it into the darkness.

Zombies. About a hundred or so in varying states of decomposition. In the absence of any stimulus, they were standing still in a dormant state, so as to conserve energy. The flashlight caught their attention, however. Almost in unison, many pairs of eyes looked up at the ceiling, rotting arms lifted and the familiar groaning and hissing began.

"That gate on the left lifts up remotely when the games are on," Padma explained. It leads to a passage that opens directly into the games arena. There's another gate on the other side of the passage. They try to get the more able-bodied creatures through because it makes for a better fight. But sometimes the combatants get lucky, and of the less impressive specimens will make it through instead—something that's easier to fight off."

"What's that other door for?" Draco said, shining the light on a blue, iron door that was covered with bloody scratches and smears.

"That's for feeding. When someone dies in the fleet, they are tossed in. Nothing is wasted."

The compartment they were hiding in creaked ominously. It lurched forward as bolts came loose, causing the section under them to buckle. Padma gasped.

"Move back," Draco hissed. " _Slowly_."

She did as asked. Padma's lesser weight was nearly inconsequential compared to the combined weight of Draco and Igor, who lay between them. There was the noise of more bolts coming loose.

Draco attempted to climb over Igor, but there was simply no room. The section under Draco collapsed. He felt the vent tipping beneath him, sending him and Igor sliding downwards towards the ground. He braced his hands and feet against the sides of the vent, lifting his body up to allow Igor to slide under him and down into the waiting zombies below. The flashlight rolled down first, followed by Igor.

"Malfoy!" Padma called out.

There was nothing else to do but propel himself up and across to Padma's section of the vents, as hard as he could. He did this as the compartment fell. It barely made a sound as it landed on top of the zombies who were tearing apart Igor's corpse. Amidst the snarling, there was the brief sound of ripping clothing and then an eerie wet hum coming from the creatures that were lucky enough to be inside the feeding zone.

Draco felt Padma take hold of the front of his shirt and haul him away from the gap in the vent.

"Merlin," she breathed. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

There was movement where the flashlight had fallen. Draco and Padma squinted into the darkness to get a better look. The beam of the flashlight flicked back and forth, likely kicked by zombies as they rushed to the corpse. But then, curiously, the beam rose from the ground, lifted high above the fray, eventually illuminating Padma and Malfoy.

Padma shielded her eyes from the glare. When she looked again, she was incredulous. "What is it doing?" she whispered.

"It's pointing us out to its…friends." Draco replied, though his tone suggested that even he had trouble believing what he was seeing.

"That's impossible! Zombies don't have friends! They don't pick up flashlights and use them, either!"

But that was precisely what was happening. And this was not all the light had revealed. There was a group of zombies separate to the rest of the mob, and these creatures were not currently focussed on feeding. They stood close together, almost in line formation, occupying a corner of the room. All of them were in good shape, sporting the odd bite wound, but otherwise seemed to have full control over most of their limbs. The truly horrifying thing about them was that they were staring with interest at Draco and Padma—not necessarily as potential pray to shuffle after, but as something new that had appeared in their dark confines of the hold and therefore worthy of investigation.

"Wizarding zombies," Draco surmised. "There was evidence of their existence at Hogwarts, but we never really got to see any in action until recently."

"Probably for the better," Padma said, with a shudder. She tugged on his arm. "Come on, we'd better get you back!"


	25. Exposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione learns the shocking truth about the origins of the zombie virus.

_"Do you ever have any recurring dreams?" Lavender Brown asks._

Hermione can't remember the year that conversation takes place. Fifth, maybe? 'Normal' was hard to date-stamp when you attended Hogwarts. It was as if Hermione's recollection of her time at school was a finite resource and her memory had only bothered to make room for the learning, the danger, the highs and lows, not the mid-ranges.

The conversation had probably occurred over breakfast, though. What she does remember is Ron chewing on toast with his mouth open.

_"I dream I've forgotten something important and I can't remember what," Neville tells them._

No one is surprised.

_"I always get chased, right?" Ron said. "And it's a sodding spider big enough to ride! Only my legs don't work. It's like I've been hit with Leg-locker or something. I fall over and the spider climbs on top of me…"_

Seamus liked to pluck at low-hanging fruit. _"Are you sure this isn't the spider's nightmare?"_

Everyone laughs. Well, almost everyone. Hermione sees that Harry is smiling, but he's also distracted because distracted is what happens when Voldemort's trying to kill you and you've also got girl problems.

_"I reckon those monster dreams are common," Lavender said. "I have the same ones. Can't see what it is, but there's always something nasty coming after me..."_

_Parvati leans in conspiratorially, school tie in danger of falling into a large bowl of congealing porridge. She whispers to them, "Padma dreams that she hasn't studied for her exams."_

_"How do you know what she dreams? Did she tell you?" Hermione inquires._

Parvati's stare is a bit cooler when she looks at Hermione. They are friendly enough, but like Lavender, Parvati is as shallow as a puddle and Hermione finds guilty gratification in giving her a hard time on occasion.

_"She doesn't need to tell me," is Parvati's surprisingly serious response. "Sometimes, we suffer each other's dreams."_

_"Twin magic," Neville says, nodding._

_Ron snorts. "Then Hermione must be the missing Patil triplet because I reckon she has the exact same recurring nightmare! Right, Hermione?" He waggles his eyebrows at her. "Right?"_

Hermione played with her salad fork, pushing the tines into the pad of her thumb and observed the marks left behind—four, tiny, depression points. She's had that dream, of course. But usually there's another theme that takes center stage.

She stands alone and there is a decision to be made—the choice of a spell, a door to open, a chess piece to move. A whole slew of decisions that are time-contingent because behind her, in the darkness, is _not_ the bogeyman, but Ron, Harry, mum and dad, the Weasleys and Ginny. They await their fate, passive and entirely dependent on Hermione's choices.

In her dream, Hermione never makes the correct choice. She chooses the wrong door or opens the wrong book. She looks down at her hands and is horrified to see the black, creeping tendrils emerge—a network of poison that splays outwards. She is the root of misfortune and her friends and loved ones fall down, dead, the blood vessels in their faces traced over in black. Hermione's monsters are never hulking, great beasts that hunted you. Her monsters were her bad decisions.

She looked across the table now. This was not the happy, worn, oak surface of the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall and it was not Ron's smiling, freckled face looking back at her, waiting for her answer. Alexander Amarov's piercing, gimlet stare was something she would _never_ get used to, no matter that Malfoy and Agent Richards quite often looked at her in the same way. He watched her now, managing to look curious and knowing at the same time.

Hermione had been in the fleet for three weeks—two of those weeks were spent unconscious and in recovery. The days after her convalescence were probably even more unsettling. For the past four nights, Amarov had requested her presence at dinner, at what he referred to as the 'Captains' Table'. Everyone in attendance was dressed in formal attire. Among the Principals of the fleet, apparently it was the custom to dress for dinner.

Tonight, Amarov wore a slim black suit over a finely pressed, white shirt. The buttons of the shirt were miniscule—looking like black, map pins against the starched, alabaster fabric. The overall effect was sleek, simple and in stark contrast to the garish décor of the rest of the cruise-liner. No tie tonight, Hermione noted, though he'd been wearing one on every other occasion she'd seen him, save their introduction on the kidnapper's trawler. He'd managed to put on some of the weight h'd lost since his ordeal. The hollows in his cheeks were filled out, though this in no way lessened the inhospitable angles of his cheekbones. An exceedingly handsome man, by popular standards. Pity about everything else.

Twelve others set at the long table. All of them captains save for the only two women present—Hermione and Honoria. As if sensing Hermione's train of thought, Honoria glanced up from her second course. The look she gave Hermione ought to have singed the skin of her face.

Honoria's hatred for Hermione was understandable. She resented Hermione, but there was also the not insignificant matter of Honoria being utterly _besotted_ with Amarov. It was laughable, really. Honoria's devotion to her employer was no longer a great mystery. Honoria liked her boys bad, it seemed. _Crazy_ bad. Hermione's present position as Amarov's favourite magical collectible did not go unnoticed by Amarov's inner circle. But fleet members did not question Amarov's decisions lightly. Hermione had no such qualms. At the first dinner, she'd listed her demands, ignoring the amused looks of the other dinner guests. She'd made attempts to negotiate, to trade, to convince and when all that failed, she threatened. But all she got from the man was a short pause in his conversation to whichever fleet captain he'd been talking to before Hermione interrupted him.

The look he gave her was almost paternal— _I see you wanting my attention, my dear, but you will wait._

So she waited. Three more excruciating dinners. Then a fourth. Each time, she ignored the clothing he sent to her room. They were beautiful, tasteful outfits, aesthetically speaking, with red carpet labels. Hermione tossed the first and second ones out of a porthole before Amarov had the tiny window sealed shut. The third she'd manages to shrink and shrivel over a heating vent and the fourth she easily ruined with water. On this, the fifth night, no dress had come. Maybe he was running out of outfits in her size? And so like every night before, Hermione attended dinner dressed in Professor Belikov's faded denim shirt and slacks, rolling up the sleeves and hems and using a curtain tassel as a belt. She was barefoot. At no point had shoes been provided, which was a shame, because being a barefoot captive did not do much for one's morale.

Not for the first time, Hermione wondered if her recent actions were perceived by Amarov as petulance rather than protest. Maybe she had to pick her battles? She felt less like a captive member of a British Ministry for Magic scientific team, than a tantruming teenager, waiflike in her too-large, men's clothing and sulking. She gripped the fork harder. Breaking point was near. She felt it. If something didn't happen soon, if Amarov continued to deny her from seeing her friends she would…

She would do absolutely _nothing,_ because so long as the bio-feedback trigger was embedded into his chest, he was literally a walking _bomb_. And even if he wasn't, there were six guards in the room. They stood with their backs to the walls, arms folded. Two of them wore sub-machine guns strapped around their chests.

Around her, the other diners spoke in about four other languages, including English. They laughed, argued, drank and ate. Hermione learned a great deal about the fleet's inner workings. She learned the name of the captains and first mates, the vessels and cruisers, and bits and pieces regarding course changes, security and housing. No one bothered to censor any information in her presence. But it was all quite useless if she could not find a way to relay it to Malfoy.

"The bisque is very good," Amarov said.

His voice was barely audible above the clinking of cutlery and glass, but it effectively halted all other discussion at the table. After four days, Amarov had apparently decided to acknowledge her presence.

"Do you know which country boasts the most Michelin stars? You may think it's France or Spain. Or perhaps the US?"

"It's Japan," she supplied, because she'd read it in a Readers' Digest in the waiting room of her father's orthodontic practice one day.

He smiled. "My chef hails from Osaka. Before all this, he had just taken three stars. As such, I highly recommend the bisque."

Hermione put her fork down. "You'll forgive me if I find it hard to muster much of an appetite when there are sick and dying people imprisoned in your fleet."

The diner seated to Amarov's left was an obese, red-faced Frenchman. Louis Renauld was his name and he was the captain of the ship that held the magical prisoners. Most of the people in the fleet knew it as the 'games ship'. Renauld opened his ruddy mouth to speak, but Amarov held up a hand.

"There seems to be a lot of rumour and conjecture flying around. Permit me to set the record straight, Miss Granger. We are well supplied, but our resources will not last indefinitely. The food you see before you is the result of some very creative cooking with very limited ingredients. Louis, please enlighten our guest." Amarov picked up his wine glass and sipped from it.

"If we abide by our current rationing regime, we will have enough stored food to last approximately eight months, maybe ten. Perishables are another matter, of course. Though we avoid it as much as possible, supply ships have to make trips to the mainland, at great risk," Renauld said.

"At great risk, Miss Granger," Amarov echoed. "A risk _my_ men bear for the good of the entire fleet. That includes you and your friends."

Her uneaten bisque was cleared, and a third course of escargot in garlic butter was brought out.

"You actually think you can convince me that what you're doing here is _good_? Are you all liars, delusional or just plain stupid?"

"Watch your manners, _witch_ ," snapped the Frenchman.

Amarov did not look in the least bit put out. He was as calm as glass. "Miss Granger, permit me to ask you a question."

"Only if you answer one of mine in return."

"Fine," Amarov allowed. He handled his escargot tongs deftly, extricating one snail with a small fork. "I'll go first. What is the estimated duration of survival for a Muggle residing in an urbanised section of the UK? London, for example. Your team did their homework, I'm assuming? You are aware of the figures?"

She was loathe to play along, but it was obvious that the conversation was leading somewhere important. "Without secure shelter, about four days."

"And how long have I kept my thousands of fleet citizens alive?"

Hermione did not have the precise answer to that question. Amarov supplied it.

"Ten months, twenty days." He removed another snail. "In that time, we've had babies born to mothers who will never have to fear their children being ripped from their arms and devoured in front of them. We've had marriages, birthdays and anniversaries. The children go to school and when my people are sick, there are doctors to see to them."

"You mean like my friend, Padma? The doctor you are _forcing_ to work for you?"

"What other function would you have her serve? Wasn't that her job on your team? My priority will always be the humans of the fleet, but as it happens I have taken in Magical refugees who need medical care. She is treating her own kind and I imagine that she would choose to."

"What about simple medicines? Antibiotics, for example. You aren't making any of it available to the magical captives. People are _dying_. They could save themselves if you had only let them keep their wands!"

The other diners might as well have been watching a ping-pong match. Their gazes went back and forth, between Hermione's rapid fire volleys and Amarov's return serves.

"Miss Granger, a year ago, most of the people on this planet had no idea that the magical race even existed. How long do you think this fleet would last if I permitted near a thousand wizards and witches the use of their wands? How do you think the humans of the fleet would feel?"

"I'd day they'd be relieved! Some of the most impossible rescues and evacuations of Muggles to date have been carried out by Magical folk!"

"You bend the laws of physics. You vanish into thin air and reappear. You fly. You kill with words, and somehow you think my people would _welcome_ that kind of unchecked power in such close quarters? We are a floating island of steel, wood and fibreglass held together by martial law and desperation. _That_ is reality. Magical unrest in this fleet could sink us."

"So what use are we to you without our wands?" she asked, rhetorically. "Why keep us here? You use us for blood sport! You use wizarding children for experimentation!"

"Ah, that," he said, and then sighed with what looked to be authentic regret. "You are referring to Zabini and his son, and the creature being kept in the labs?"

"Eloise Withinshaw," Hermione reminded him.

"The child in the lab came down with typhus. We made a decision which included not having her death be meaningless. As it was, she was euthanized painlessly and her mother was compensated with additional rations for her remaining, healthy child. And with her passing, little Eloise has assisted the search for a cure."

"It's as easy to justify as all that, is it?" Hermione asked, quietly. "And what on earth did Blaise's four-year old son do to deserve being put into the Pit?"

"It may surprise you to know that it was not my decision to put Zabini's son into the Pit. That was a mistake and it was made in my absence, isn't that right, _Louis_?" Amarov asked, with a voice like knives. In that moment, Hermione realised Amarov seemed to be handling her with kid gloves. Others were not so fortunate.

Renauld was sweating. He laughed nervously and muttered to Amarov in French.

"English, please," Amarov ordered, without looking up from his escargot, "and give your reasons to our guest, not to me."

"Of course," Renauld said, staring mutinously at Hermione. "Your friend, Blaise Zabini attempted to escape on numerous occasions with his son and he injured two guards in the process. He stole supplies and caused great dissent amongst the others. He was a routine _criminel_ and the Pit is punishment. But, as Alexander says, it was a…how do you say? Error in my judgement to put his son there as well."

"The fights are a brutal and bloody business, but they are these for a reason." It was Honoria who spoke now, and Hermione was surprised to note the resignation in her voice. "There must be effective disincentives to rioting and anarchy. The keepers of the fleet are out-numbered, you realise this?"

"More and more each day," Hermione replied, with artificial cheer. This earned her a snort of amusement from Amarov.

"We have no police here, Miss Granger. We have an illusory upper hand and we have guns. These are lawless times and the people need structure."

"And somehow you think making them watch their comrades being taken apart by zombies is one way to achieve that?" Hermione demanded.

"Punitive deterrence works, my dear. It's the oldest trick in the book. There are other refugee camps. The humans of my fleet are free to try their luck elsewhere if they like. I hear the Outer Hebrides has not fared so well. From other camps, I hear news of looting, murder and rape. Scared people can be very…scary."

Hermione surveyed the table, stared long and hard at each of the captains. "So that's it, then? All of you have no moral objection to any of this? Every act of barbarism committed in the name of survival is justifiable." Hermione nodded. "I see the meek will not be inheriting the earth any time soon."

Amarov steepled his fingers as he regarded her. "You will not even consider the merits of _any_ reason I have given you because it suits your purposes to think of me as some kind of monster."

She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Your insane need to create the cure first has resulted in the death of five of my colleagues! You have kidnapped me and three others. None of us have done anything to harm you!"

He leaned forward on the table, an unsettling gleam in his eye. "Not so." Amarov wiped his mouth on his napkin and stood up. He turned to one of the guards. "Please show Professor Belikov and Dr Prestin into the room. They are waiting outside."

Hermione felt her hands grow cold. There was unpleasantness ahead. Everyone in the room could sense it.

A moment later, the doors to the dining room opened and in walked Belikov, looking like he was being marched to certain death. His mood did not improve upon seeing Hermione there. The fleet's chief physician—a horrid weasel of man called Prestin—followed behind.

"Alexander," Belikov said, in greeting.

"Vadim, thank you for waiting. I wanted to share the happy news with the rest of the captains." Amarov began to walk around the table. "Friends, it would seem that the Professor has managed to synthesize a cure for the Infection. He came to tell me personally, just before dinner."

There were gasps, surprise, and from Honoria, the same dread Hermione was feeling.

"Is this true?" Renauld demanded.

"It is what he tells me," said Amarov. "Yet more testing will have to be done, but the future is bright, isn't it Vadim?"

The elderly scientist remained silent and grim.

"Tell me, what are the three rules for anyone who joins us in the fleet?"

Belikov was very pale now. "Obedience, loyalty, honesty."

"Honoria, what do you say? Has the Professor done it?"

Honoria looked around the room, seeking silent reassurance from the other captains. There was none. "If the Professor says it is ready, then I suppose it must be…"

"You trust Belikov?"

"Of course."

"Good." Amarov smiled at her. It was a wide, beaming smile that brought two bright spots of colour to her cheeks. "Hold out your arm, my dear."

She frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"Hold out your arm so I can have Prestin inject you with a dose of the pathogen." He turned to the doctor. "Prestin, you've brought a sample?"

Hermione watched this exchange with growing horror. Granted, she would have gladly shoved Honoria Cloot into the icy sea the first chance she got, but this? This was _evil_.

Honoria was perplexed. "I…I don't gather your meaning, Alexander. You want to _infect_ me?"

"Yes," he replied, emphatic. "Vadim says the serum is ready, so curing you would be a simple matter of giving you a dose of the cure after Prestin infects you. But only if you volunteer, of course?"

It was sick. Hermione didn't know which was more twisted, Amarov's request or Honoria actually appearing to acquiesce. She held out an arm to Prestin, who pulled on a pair of thick, latex gloves and then removed a syringe from a flat, leather case. Contained within the syringe was an amber-coloured liquid—a sample of the Infection, Hermione presumed.

Prestin approached Honoria. "Hold still."

Honoria's eyes were wide and stricken as she looked at Amarov, likely expecting a last-minute reprieve, a sign that this was some sort of show, a charade. But then Prestin uncapped the syringe and pulled her wrist towards him.

"Stop," came a soft voice. It was Belikov. "There is no cure."

Honoria snatched her hand away from Prestin. "What the hell is going on?"

Amarov sat at the edge of the dining table, arms folded. "I don't know. Vadim, why don't you tell us?"

"This madness has to end, Alexander. I thought if you trusted me, you might have me administer the serum to the captives and then release them."

"I did trust you," Amarov replied and there was regret in his voice. "As did Honoria. You leave us no choice."

Belikov seemed resigned to his fate, whatever it was, but there was something else on his mind. "What about my grand-daughters?"

"They will be cared for."

"You can't do this," Hermione protested, as the guards removed the scientist. She rose to her feet. "And you're wrong, you _do_ have a choice!"

"He _lied_ to me. And he would have been party to the release and potential creation of hundreds of new magical zombies on the British Isles. Have you ever _seen_ what these creatures can do?" he demanded. "They are as different from human zombies as you are different from me."

Renauld cleared his throat. "Nevertheless, perhaps the witch is right? Don't we need him?"

Amarov had resumed his seat now, replacing his linen napkin across his lap. "Malfoy will take over. After all, he's used to running an operation like this. Honoria, I believe it's time to show Miss Granger the file."

As ordered, Honoria passed a folder across to Hermione, who took it and sat down.

"What is this?"

"Surveillance photographs, pay-rolls, receipts, travel itineraries and transcripts of intercepted conversations," Honoria said. "Otherwise known as _evidence_."

"You're aware that your handsome colleague was manufacturing drugs for his Master?" Amarov clarified.

Hermione leafed through the documents. "Of course we knew. Malfoy received a life sentence in Azkaban for the use of Unforgiveables and for his work in producing black market magical pharmaceuticals during the Second Wizarding War."

Amarov leaned back in his chair. "But do you know what type of drugs he worked on?"

"Yes, I've read his file. It was mostly illicit narcotics and profitable cures for common ailments. None of this is news to me."

"Indeed? I think otherwise. Your Aurors raided Tom Riddle's operations in London about seven years ago. They shut it down and threw all those naughty little Death Eaters in jail, including your Mr Malfoy. But the Ministry lacked the scientific expertise to determine what had been produced in that lab. Necessity is the mother of invention and the sad truth is that magical people don't rely on ingenuity, they just wave a magic wand to solve their problems," Amarov said. "Literally."

Hermione unearthed a scroll that held the familiar DMLE letterhead. It looked to be a list compiled by the DMLE investigators, cataloguing the numerous substances that had been seized in the raid.

Stapled to it, was a word-processed report.

"As you can see, I took the liberty of acquiring a copy of that list and engaging an insider to verify what was found. I trust you recognise the name of my consultant?"

The man's signature was at the bottom of every page in the report Amarov had commissioned. "Hendry Tan," Hermione read, looking up at Amarov. "The man who worked with Malfoy."

Amarov nodded. "Riddle offered the funding, security and secrecy that enabled Tan to play God in that laboratory. Keep reading. I think you'll see why poor Hendry thought it was preferable to hang himself in his own lab rather than help me to bring this information to the authorities."

The report was highly technical, but by now Hermione was familiar enough with the terminology to understand what she was reading. She nearly wished she weren't.

* * *

_Viral agent. Neurotropic class. Infiltration of peripheral nervous system, afferent nerves, central nervous system. Prodromal encephalitis. Transverse myelitis._

_Mortality 99%. Application: bio-weaponry (non-magical humans)_

* * *

The text on the page swirled into a mass of black scrawls. Hermione blinked to clear her vision. She read and re-read the thing, and then laid the scroll and attached report down on the table with a shaking hand.

"You freed the co-creator of the virus that eventually caused the Infection, Miss Granger. Tom Riddle, Hendry Tan and Draco Malfoy are jointly responsible for the death of millions. The latter two worked in the same laboratory. They respectively created a virus and anti-virus that was never meant for the wizarding population. It was to be sold as a weapon or deterrent against _Muggles_."

Hermione blinked away tears. "But it's deadly to Magical people as well…"

"Dr Tan found an overseas buyer, but Riddle wasn't willing to part with the formula just yet. Tan got greedy. Before his conscience caught up with him, Tan managed to sneak a sample out of the lab without setting off any alarms. He selected a vessel that could pass through magical wards undetected, but didn't count on the virus doing what viruses do best…"

And just like that, it all made sense. "He tried to smuggle it out inside a wizard," Hermione surmised, her voice listless.

Amarov smiled. "Very good. Patient zero was a janitor. He came, cleaned and then went home at night. He lived a very normal life for the next six years, never realising that he would be the harbinger of the most deadly plague mankind has known. The rest, unfortunately, is now our common history."

"You said…" Hermione's voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again, "You said you shared this information with the government?"

"My contempt for your kind is well-known. I've been lobbying to have your people exposed for years. I was told to go away, to bury that report, to not risk destabilizing a peace that existed between Muggles and Magicals for a millennia. We were assured that the threat had been contained by the British Ministry for Magic. After all, Riddle and Tan were dead and Malfoy was facing the rest of his life in solitary confinement. And if the Muggles did chance to dig a little further, we risked being the unwelcome recipients of _Obliviatus,_ or worse. That is how you people keep your secrets, isn't it? You destroy our memories. You control minds. Your kind cannot even be trusted to protect the future of your people, let alone consider the lives of the billions of non-magical humans who keep the world turning. Your arrogance has brought humanity to its knees. So I will give wizards and witches no quarter, Miss Granger. The old world has been unmade by this plague and I am going to help stitch it back up again. But this time, _we'll_ be in charge."

Hermione placed her cold, shaking hands in her lap and fought not to be sick over the dining table. The stares of the others around her were not made of anger, oddly. It was a resigned condemnation which was even worse. Honoria was not spared from this, either, Hermione noted. Despite her loyalty to Amarov, she still could not shake off the taint of her origins.

The truth of what Amarov was saying and the authenticity of the documents would have to be doubted, of course. Skepticism was the hallmark of good science...

"Do you understand, now?" Amarov asked, almost gently.

She looked down at a the pile of documents—there was a black and white photo of Draco as he walked down a London street, dressed in a Muggle suit, long legs striding across cobblestones. He was younger and there was more of the teenager she remembered from school and less of the quiet, weary man she saw today. The one who sometimes, in unguarded moments, looked at her as if she had the only key to a lock he had never had any interest in opening before.

Yes, she understood now.

_Harry grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the exit, "We're leaving without him."_

_"Harry, no." She dug her heels in. "We need him."_

_"No one needs that! No one can possibly be that desperate!"_

She had made a choice those many months ago at Azkaban. Amarov and Honoria were responsible for the deaths of her colleagues, but that would not have happened if Hermione had left well enough alone. She had inadvertently freed the one person Amarov was convinced could end what had started. And perhaps Malfoy would indeed be that person. Amarov had claimed Malfoy at great cost to Project Christmas. The only way for all the recent death, pain, paranoia and distrust to be worth it was if Draco _succeeded_. Right now, that was all that mattered.

There were eight courses in total that night. Hermione barely recalled what came after the escargot. The world was too bright and brittle and the sounds of conversation around her was jarring. She focused on putting one foot in front of the other, as Honoria escorted her back to her room.

"Now you know why I'm here," Honoria told her. "Hurts having your heart broken, doesn't it?" the younger woman taunted, before she locked Hermione inside the room.

Hermione knew she was not just referring to Draco.


	26. Forays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richards has words with Scrimgeour. Hermione wears an evening dress. Amarov wears cologne and I clearly SUCK at chapter summaries.

Barnaby Richards was awake when Scrimgeour entered the room.

The Wizarding Senate agent was propped up against a tall stack of pillows. There was a fresh white bandage across his chest and right shoulder. He was already in a foul mood, having been told by Aisha Malik that there was no 'minimum quota' of bed-rest that could still qualify as bed-rest. To add insult to injury (a punctured lung, fractured sternum and hypothermia, if you wanted to get technical), he'd been handed a crossword puzzle to complete.

A crossword. From a newspaper. Like some kind of God-damned, ailing geriatric.

Localised nuclear Armageddon was nigh. Muggle and Wizarding undead had sent most of the civilised world back into the Stone Age. A murderous playboy billionaire had murdered one of their own and kidnapped half their team.

And yet here he was trying to work out 5-across (four letters—'sanctuary furniture').

Richards took his sweet time acknowledging Scrimgeour's presence. He wrote P-E-W-S, capped his pen and then regarded the Minister with all the warmth and affection of a tax audit. To say that Richards was angry was incorrect. He'd been angry three days ago when he'd first regained consciousness. He had worked through that anger.

Now, he was just strategic. It was his job, after all.

"Was wondering when you'd come down here to pay me a visit."

"To be fair, I've come down here a few times," said the Minister. He pulled up a chair and sat. "You just haven't been lucid until now."

Scrimgeour appeared to be waiting for him to reply. Granted, Richards was still weak from blood loss and the aftereffects of hypothermia, but not even being moments away from death was enough to dull his acerbic nature.

"So you gonna come clean, now? Or do we keep dancin' around?" Richards smiled humourlessly. "It's a familiar old two-step. I know why some secrets need to be kept, but seeing as we're meant to be leading this group, you can imagine how pissed off I am to suspect you've been dancing fucking _solo_."

The Minister blinked, taking a moment to digest the rampant use of metaphor. He inhaled sharply through his long, thin nose. "What do you need to know, Agent Richards?"

Richards attempted to sit up against the pillows that Aisha dutifully fluffed for him twice a day. His normally tanned, leathery complexion had a distinct grey cast, but Scrimgeour seemed to know better than to offer assistance.

"You British wizards don't know understand what _need to know_ means. I'm guessing the Senate needed to know quite a few things before the Project Christmas collaboration. What the blazing hell is Alexander Amarov's interest in the Project and its team members? Was Honoria Cloot working with him?"

"She may very well have been," Scrimgeour said. "What we do know is that Amarov has been a thorn in the side of the British Wizarding community for the last fifteen years."

"Pfft," said Richards. "You guys don't own the patent on nosy Muggles. We get those kinds in the States. Real persistent. Most are crackpot, conspiracy theorists—"

"Who happen to be _correct_ regarding the conspiracy in question," Scrimgeour interjected.

"Yeah, but there are ways to handle these people that do not involve endangering the community you're trying to protect in the first place," Richards said. He scowled at the wall clock across the room. "Malik's gonna be in here in twenty minutes with my nighty-night meds. Get to the point."

Scrimgeour met the agent's expectant stare with a look that was no less penetrating. "The Ministry was aware that a lethal pathogen had likely been developed in Voldemort's underground laboratories. We knew about those labs because Alexander Amarov had been conducting his own, privately funded investigations into Voldemort's operations in his continuing bid to gather evidence that would expose the magical world. But due to the seriousness of this discovery, he told the DMLE what he knew. I was asked by my colleagues to authorise a raid on the labs. I signed the paperwork and the raid was conducted three days later. Draco Malfoy was captured and Dr Hendry Tan, the creator of said pathogeb, was found dead."

"Did Amarov have an inside man?"

"He claimed so," Scrimgeour said, "but he would not reveal his informant to the DMLE."

"It might have been Malfoy," Richards suggested. That would explain Amarov's interest in kidnapping him after Granger and Potter broke him out of jail."

"It might have been, though I suspect it wasn't. A more likely candidate was Tan, Malfoy's erstwhile colleague. At the moment, we have no way of knowing."

Richards narrowed his eyes. "I get that you didn't want to share the DMLE's little cover up with the rest of the team, but _I'm_ not part of your team. I'm the guy that represents the money and resources you needed to make this operation work in the first place! You screwed the Senate, you screwed your own people and you screwed _me_. If I didn't still have a hole in my lung and if you weren't a hundred years old, I'd get out this bed and punch you in the face, _Minister_."

"What is it that you people say? Raincheck?" offered Scrimgeour, smoothly.

"You made bad calls, my friend. The DMLE needs to be reigned in."

"Yes. And I will readily concede to all of my and their mistakes," Scrimgeour said, with great weariness. "However, we did what we thought was best at the time. The Ministry has a long and complex tradition of secretive bureaucracy that predates me and many of the Ministers that came before. It was my hope to have those old traditions dismantled by the end of my term as Minister. I am not permitted to make unilateral decisions without consequences, Agent Richards. Sometimes, it is necessary to swim with the tide in order to find an eventual, safe harbour."

Now it was Richards turn to digest metaphors. "Do you know how the Infection got out? Obviously, the DMLE failed to keep it buried like they did with Malfoy."

"I have no idea. Perhaps Amarov knows? I was rather hoping Malfoy would know, but he gave no indication that he did. Although, I admit when it comes to that particular young man, it's frankly easier to read tea leaves…"

Richards snorted. "No arguments there. He's a survivor, which will come in handy for him if he's in Amarov's custody, willing or not."

Scrimgeour got to his feet. "Despite all that has transpired, it's imperative that you believe me when I tell you we had no reason to suspect that Amarov would harm the team that was sent to rescue him. On the contrary, given that Amarov is aware of who and what we are, I expected him to be cautious, but cooperative." He sighed. "You refer to them as Team Members, but you and I know they are more than that. To me, at least."

"I believe you."

"Thank you."

"Tell me something else. Why would Amarov be holding Granger, Wallen, Patil and Malfoy?"

Scrimgeour had been about to reply, when Aisha Malik opened the door to the room. She gave both men a breezy smile and reminded the Minister that Agent Richards needed his bed-rest.

"God damn it!" Richards boomed.

"Would you like another crossword?" Aisha asked, completely unperturbed by his outburst.

"Hell no," growled the agent. "What else you got?"

"My phone has Angry Birds."

Richards shut his eyes, looking pained. "Bring the crossword."

Scrimgeour waited until Malik had left, before speaking. "My best guess is that Amarov captured them so that they can be made to work on the cure in his own, private facility. Or just made to work, at any rate."

"That fits in with the rival team theory and might explain Honoria's role."

The Minister nodded. He gave Richards a commiserating, slightly melancholy smile. "It would also mean that the work on a cure may live on, even if we do not."

The room door opened again, but it was not Aisha Malik. Dr Kate McAlister stood at the threshold, looking alarmed. "Sorry to disturb, gents, but we have a bit of a situation!"

"What is it?" Scrimgeour asked the virologist, wand already in hand.

"You know that horde that's been building up outside? Well, they just doubled in size and are moving _towards_ the house."

"What exactly are they doing?" the Minister demanded.

"I'm not sure, but they're sort of walking forward and deliberately feeling around the, er, barriers?"

"Wards," said Scrimgeour.

"Yes—the wards."

"Christ," Richards exclaimed, "They're testing our electric fencing. How many?"

"More than a hundred now. Potter and Longbottom are picking them off from the attic as discreetly as they can. They asked me to see if they can get a few more wands to assist. I already sent Professor Yoshida up there to help."

"I'm on it," said Richards, who whipped the sheets away from his bare legs.

"No," said Scrimgeour. "If you collapse, you will be completely useless to us in the event that horde does manage to get through."

"Can that actually happen?" McAlister asked. "What about the wards?"

Richards was also staring at Scrimgeour. "If those sons of bitches really are all magical, will the wards hold up?"

"We cannot be certain," said Scrimgeour. "Grimmauld Place's protective wards are ancient and complex," he explained, for McAlister's benefit. "They were originally designed to keep Muggles away, but over the years, the Black family added additional layers, never succeeding in fully dismantling the original enchantments in favour of a ground-up approach, so to speak. They are a patchwork of protective magic that has shielded us from the occasional, inquisitive Muggle or roaming zombie horde. But with any patchwork approach, there can be…gaps."

"What do you mean _gaps_?" asked McAlister.

Richards answered her. "He means that if enough magical beings attempt to gain entry _all at the same time_ , the wards could falter. They were never built for any kind of sustained, coordinated attack."

All the colour drained from McAlister's face. "So we shore them up, right? Don't you have, you know, spells for that?"

"We have been doing just that on a regular basis, Dr McAlister," Scrimgeour told her, in a tone that was meant to reassure. "But reducing the risk of a coordinated attack is also paramount. If you excuse me, I'll join the others upstairs."

After the Minister left, McAlister sank into the chair her had previously occupied. "I didn't think I'd ever hear the words 'zombie' and 'coordinated' in the same conversation…"

"Don't worry, Doc," Richards said. "If we do lose the house, we won't stick around to defend it. People are easy enough to transport."

"But what about all the equipment? All the samples, data and records? We lost enough of that when Honoria destroyed most of the computers. Richards, we simply cannot afford another disruption!"

Richards considered this. "If we do have to abandon ship in a hurry, can you make sure we have what we need?"

"Of course. How much can we take?"

"Think of what each of us would be able to carry out of here by hand, and then multiply that by ten. Get Malik to help you."

McAlister nodded. She stood and walked to the door.

"Kate," Richards called out.

"Yes?"

Richards opened a small, zippered case retrieved from a drawer at the bedside table. The case housed a service revolver, photographs of his daughters and a set of keys. He threw the keys to her.

"That opens our ammunition vault in Scrimgeour's office. Have you ever fired a gun?"

"Good lord, no."

He gave her a rare smile. "No sweat. I'll teach you and Malik. You gals can't be any worse than Mercer."

McAlister smiled sadly. "I miss him. I miss all of them."

"Yeah, me too, Doc. But we're not quite giving up on finding them yet."

* * *

Alexander Amarov walked into her room just after six in the evening. After yet another mind-numbing day of being locked inside with no news of what was happening within the fleet, his decision to pay her a visit in person was slightly concerning.

The man was there on an errand, seemingly.

He carried a long, diaphanous, black lace and tulle dress on a hanger, a pair of strappy high-heeled shoes and a mist-grey, ankle-length fur coat that had probably been a hundred, separate chinchillas at one point. He was also flanked by two guards, whom he dismissed after laying the dress out on the bed. Clearly he did not deem her to be enough of a threat that he was unable to be alone in a room with her.

Good.

The door shut behind the guards and she was now locked inside with Amarov, who was dressed in a slim wool suit that was so densely black, it was borderline velvet. His hair was damp. Only just visible through the unbuttoned second button of an azure shirt, was the metal panel of his embedded, biofeedback device. The minute, red light flickered silently in time with his resting heart rate. To think that something so small could control a fleet that comprised thousands of people…

"Good evening," he said.

Hermione stood behind the breakfast bar of her room's kitchenette. Minutes earlier, she'd been looking through the cabinets for the umpteenth time, hoping to find a sliver of _something_ she could use as a weapon—a large splinter, wire, perhaps a long, loose screw? It was a sign of how desperate she was. Alas, the stateroom furniture was all very sound. The physical barrier of the breakfast bar provided a false sense of security, but at this point she would take any boost to her confidence.

She cast a cursory glance at the outfit he had brought. "I thought we've established I'm not wearing your dresses."

He smiled a smile of perfect, gleaming white teeth. His blue gaze, a shade lighter than his shirt, dropped from her face to her body, in an assessing stare that was far more personal than any he had given her before. He observed the overkill of borrowed denim.

"It's cold topside and you can't go traipsing around in Belikov's castoffs indefinitely."

"Prisoners don't normally get to 'traipse'."

"You're not a prisoner."

"And yet there is a lock on the door." She tapped at her chin, her eyes cold. "How odd."

"Merely a precaution," he replied, amused.

She folded her arms. "From whom? You? If so, it's not working." She gave him a humourless smile. "Here you stand."

"I'll sit, if you prefer?" And he did so—along the edge of the bed. "You are a rare specimen, aren't you?" he asked, with what sounded like warm curiosity. "I find the reality of Hermione Granger more than meets my expectations."

"Don't tell me my reputation precedes me?" she inquired. "If your source is Honoria, I'd take whatever she says with a bag of salt."

He ran one long, recently-manicured finger along the lace of the dress. "It may surprise you to know that I've read 'Hogwarts: A History', issues of The Daily Prophet as far back as they were written in modern English, and far too many copies of Witch Weekly, which I'm actually concerned may have atrophied my brain, somewhat."

"Yes, Witch Weekly will do that," she allowed.

He stood and walked towards her. "I knew who you were before we met, Hermione. I knew you the moment I saw you on that fishing boat."

"What has this got to do with anything?" she asked, failing to fight the urge to retreat backwards.

"I'm not sure yet, but I'm hoping that answer will come to me in time." He sounded genuinely perplexed. "Suffice it to say, I have a fascination with that which is exceptional." He was close enough that she could smell his aftershave. Hermione felt the edge of the sink against her back. There was nowhere to go. No weapons in the room, no crockery to throw, cutlery to brandish, just a damnable mountain of European pillows, cushions and plastic bottles of water supplied by her minders. There wasn't even a plastic tray to use as a lethal weapon (ala Malfoy).

Curious. Despite the worrying similarities between the two men, on all the occasions Malfoy had crowded her and intimidated her, she had never felt physically repelled. The anxiety and concern she experienced with Malfoy was very different, and that wasn't just to do with relative risk and danger. Frankly, Amarov was just as beautiful close up as he was from a distance, but there was something about him that made her want to pull on three Weasley jumpers and hide under the covers of her parents' bed.

And this was _without_ him already being a murdering psychopath.

To her dismay, he raised a hand and touched one of the curls from her mop of wild, unbound hair. After so many days without a hairbrush, it had reverted to what Hermione liked to think of as its primal stat. She inhaled sharply, more from nerves than anything else. The effect of this meant that her denim-clad chest grazed against Amarov ever so slightly. She saw his pupils widen and then, almost on que, she saw the silent red beeping of his bio-feedback device quicken.

She blinked; the realisation of what that meant began to dawn on her.

He cleared his throat. "The black dress was an uninspired choice for your colouring, I think. I should have picked red. Or perhaps, gold? Next time."

She wrenched her head to the side and watched with relief as the lock of hair slipped through his fingers. He seemed to enjoy the sensation it made as it escaped his hand. "I'm not wearing your sodding dress, you maniac. Not now and not next time."

Amarov leaned in to whisper to her, "You will wear what I bring you, Hermione. If you don't, I will come in here and dress you myself. And I assure you, that will be infinitely more entertaining for me, than for you. Pick your battles, my dear. This is something that will not cost you greatly to concede, yes?"

Blink-blink, blink-blink, blink-blink, went the little red light. Just as it had done on the trawler when he'd been suffocating. Only that time it had been flashing almost without intervals and there had been a beeping noise as well.

She'd more or less pieced together how the device worked—it was obviously meant to deter anyone from harming him. It registered distress based on real-time information from his body and perhaps would trigger the threatened explosion or explosions only at particular, _serious_ levels of distress? What qualified as serious distress? Was there a threshold that had to be reached? Could it all be an elaborate ruse? So far, no one was calling Amarov's bluff. He obviously had the resources to have created such an insane device.

Hermione wondered how close the kidnappers and indeed, the rescue team, had come to inadvertently blowing up the entire fleet. The device was clearly sensitive enough to pick up on Amarov's…well, arousal. What would happen if he fell down a flight of stairs? Or stubbed his toe? Or cut himself shaving?

There simply had to be some kind of fail-safe. That had to be what the inverted number panel was for—an override code that only Amarov was capable of entering.

Momentarily lost in thought, her eyes travelled to the high heels he had brought for her to wear. Amarov would soon learn that she couldn't walk a straight line in heels above two inches. With any luck, she'd fall over, split the dress and ruin his evening. The heels looked to be four inches, at least. Of all the many things she was useful for…all Amarov seemed interested in doing was turning her into his freak show arm-candy.

She sighed.

Trust him to take this as a sign of her capitulation.

"Very good," he said. "You will be my companion this evening."

"At dinner with the other captains?"

"No. Tonight, we go to the Games."


	27. Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's attends the Games for the first time.

The dress was tolerable.

Tight, but tolerable because it had long sleeves and a demure, scalloped lace neckline that just skimmed her throat. Of course it was a too long, which was expected because the good folk at Givenchy had apparently designed it for tall, statuesque women who were eighty percent legs. Or mermaids. While the garment looked about as fragile as tissue, it was actually a rather sturdy construction, which was fortuitous because the brief, boat ride to the Games Ship was undertaken in what felt like an imminent hurricane.

A small, severe-looking woman had been shown into Hermione's room shortly after Amarov's visit, carrying a case of makeup. She didn't speak English, but as it happened, communication was not required. It was obscene to be dolled up given the circumstances, let alone in preparation for the atrocity that was Amarov's Games. Hermione had no interest in observing her reflection in the mirror, but caught glimpses of it along the many, many reflective surfaces that dotted the home ship's opulent corridors.

As suspected, she thought she rather looked like a little girl playing dress up in her glamorous mother's clothing.

The full moon was occasionally visible through rolling, smoke-grey clouds that were intermittently outlined by lightning. It wasn't raining yet, fortunately. Hermione detested the fur coat, but it kept her warm from chin to ankles. It was just as well that she wore her hair down, because no up-style could have survived the wind.

Amarov was serious and silent as he escorted her. Hermione wondered if this somberness was in deference to the Games. If so, he really must see them as a necessary evil. When presented with what felt like indisputable madness, Hermione searched the countenances of the guards and entourage that walked with them. They seemed largely unperturbed—chatting, laughing, some clearly already inebriated. Amarov didn't admonish his companions or look upon them with disapproval, but it was clear he would not partake of the 'festivities' in quite the same way. He was still wearing the same suit she'd seen him in earlier, though now he'd added a white silk cravat, a dark silver pocket square and cufflinks the same colour.

She really could have done without the warm, lingering look of appreciation he'd given her when she'd emerged from her room, but as it happened, she actually _ne_ _eded_ the arm he extended to her in order to balance in the very high heels. He didn't comment on her rubber ankles. He didn't comment on anything, really, which was a relief because the last thing she wanted to do was make idle chit chat.

It was a short ride to Louis Renauld's vessel, euphemistically called the Games Ship. The fat Frenchman's former cargo ship oversaw everything that was so tragically wrong about Amarov's floating city. Human behaviour was frankly fascinating in the most macabre sort of way, Hermione thought, as a wave of profound sadness washed over her. There were clearly parallels to be drawn here with historical wartime atrocities.

Here, wizarding captives were kept in inhumane, squalid conditions. Here, also, was where Amarov kept his supply of zombies that were used in the Game and occasionally for experimentation in the labs. And if you weren't aware of this latter fact, you would be as soon as you entered the lower decks of the vessel. The place _reeked_ of death. Not an untroubled, true death, but the sort that lurched and loped and was relentless in its pursuit of the living.

Hermione thought of Padma, Wallen and the countless others who, unlike Hermione, would not be able to leave the ship later that night. She thought of Blaise Zabini and his precious little Henry and could not imagine what other Wizarding parents were going through.

In spite of these nearby horrors, Amarov's inner circle was in a celebratory mood. Any excuse for a party, Hermione supposed. The ship itself was nothing to write home about, but this didn't dampen the mood. The floor was mostly metal, metal grating or peeling, stained, laminate. Pilot lighting made everyone look jaundiced. Champagne flowed. Guests dressed in formal eveningwear chatted and laughed, while very tall, beautiful women bustled about with trays of drinks and canapés. They had to be freezing to death in their brief uniforms.

 _Finite resources, my arse_ , thought Hermione, feeling sick to her stomach. One of these young women approached her with the offer of a drink.

"No, thank you," Hermione said, sucking in a shaky breath.

"It helps," the woman whispered. She sounded American.

Hermione looked up and saw her own revulsion mirrored in the heavily made-up eyes of the waitress.

" _Nothing_ can help this," Hermione said.

The girl tossed a quick look over Hermione's shoulder, likely to check that Amarov was otherwise occupied. "The last time we were all called to the Games, a man jumped into the Pit to save his friend. _That_ helped."

"Yes, that did, didn't it? Perhaps there's hope for us yet." Hermione gave her a tremulous smile. What Malfoy had done for Zabini had been so much more than a rescue, it'd been a reminder of the humanity Amarov was forcing his own people to sacrifice.

"And in the meantime, there's vodka," the girl said, handing Hermione a glass of it, with ice. She handed out two additional glasses to Amarov and a new arrival—Honoria Cloot.

"Hello Hermione."

Honoria was also attired in black. Hermione thought it fitting. What else did you wear to an execution?

"You look very nice," Honoria commented. Her words were complimentary, but her stare was poisonous. "Alexander is very generous."

"On occasion," said Amarov. He was now at Hermione's elbow. She felt his hand on the small of her back.

"I wish we could have discussed this before you sounded the fleet bell. Tonight's Games were not planned. Renauld is ropable," Honoria informed her employer, in a tight voice. She kept a small smile on her face, as if she was discussing nothing more untoward than the fine vodka.

"Renauld is always ropable," Amarov replied. As he said this, he caught the Frenchman's eye, as the Games Master stood some distance away. Amarov raised his glass in a toast. Renauld did the same, his round, ruddy face splitting into a grin. "You see? Easily placated with a bit of attention thrown his way."

"We should not have another Game so soon after—"

"After what?" Amarov inquired, with a raised eyebrow. "After Renauld put a child into the Pit? After Draco Malfoy took it upon himself to participate? Are you referring to _those_ Games? That was a fucking PR nightmare."

Hermione realised she was being afforded a glimpse into Amarov and Honoria's working relationship. It was surprising to note that Amarov was not considered infallible. Equally fascinating was that he was obviously not unused to Honoria second guessing his decisions.

"Putting Vadim into the Pit will be worse," Honoria said. "The people know him. They like him."

"Dear God, tonight's Games are for _Belikov_?" Hermione demanded.

Whatever answer Amarov might have provided was drowned out by Renauld's booming voice as he addressed the crowd through a microphone. The viewing gallery comprised four levels. Amarov and his entourage occupied the first level, which was also the only level to be serviced by wait staff and personal attendants. Hermione wondered if the reaction of the crowd in the 'cheap seats' was standard. There were those among them who were shouting and hollering, waving red tickets clutched tightly in their fists. Betting tickets, she assumed. These men were here for the show and for the wagers.

Most of the audience was subdued, however. They looked on with quiet apprehension. The arena itself was circular with twin hatches located on opposite sides. You did not need to be an expert in forensic criminology to work out what sort of macabre business went on in the Pit—the stench, the stains and decomposing debris was sufficiently illuminating.

A buzzer sounded and one hatch slid open. It was dark on the arena floor, but it was possible to make out the figure of a man who emerged from the hatch and slowly walked into the centre of the Pit. At a signal from Renauld, floodlights turned on. There were gasps and muttering from the audience.

"Oh, Belikov…" Hermione whispered. She barely knew him, but in the short time she'd been in his company, she thought him to be a kind and compassionate man. The crowd also knew Belikov. He was not Magical. He was one of _them_.

The elderly scientist was momentarily blinded by the lights and his arm came up to shield his eyes. He was still wearing the same, tattered old suit he'd had on when he'd spoken to Amarov only the night before. He squinted, removed his glasses and cleaned them, before slipping them back on. And then he stared at the hatch on the other side of the Pit, and waited.

The buzzer sounded again and this time, complete silence descended. Even Amarov's companions seemed to be holding their breaths. All eyes were focussed on the opposite hatch. However, instead of the other hatch opening, it was the same hatch that Belikov had used.

Another man walked into the Pit, looking in much worse shape than Belikov. His clothing was nothing more than tattered rags hanging off his body. Unlike Belikov, the light did not seem to bother him. The expression on his face was one of dawning horror when he caught sight of a now rather bewildered Belikov.

" _Wallen_ ," Hermione breathed. She glanced at Honoria and saw the same realisation settle across her face. She was just as surprised.

The crowed seemed to know what to do. They responded by throwing down knives, metal bars, an axe, among other things. Both men ignored the weapons. A confused Belikov began walking towards Wallen, while Wallen began to back away from Belikov, holding out his hands and shaking his head wildly. Belikov attempted to speak to him

Clearly, Belikov had no idea whom he was in the Pit with…or _what_ he was in the Pit with.

Renauld picked up the microphone once more and addressed the crowd.

"What is he saying?" Hermione asked, touching Amarov's hand to get this attention.

He looked pleased that she engaged him. "One day, perhaps we will have time to teach you Russian. He's telling them what our former and much loved friend has done to earn his place in the Pit. He tells them that tonight is a blue moon, the second full moon this same month. A rare occurrence." Amarov rested his elbows over the railing, drink still in hand. "Watch and see, I'm told he will transform very shortly if last night is anything to go by."

Hermione was aghast. They really meant to go through with this barbarism.

"You can't do this!"

"I understand you feel some kinship with the werewolf, but he's dangerous. A guard who was meant to be watching this monster last night went missing. We suspect the worse."

"You can't condemn Wallen to death because one of your men didn't check in! That's absurd!"

"It is not the monster that I am condemning to death, my dear. He should fare quite well tonight."

Yes, of course she knew that. They meant to use Wallen as a means to murder Belikov.

"No." Hermione deposited her untouched drink on the tray of a passing attendant and then moved to stand in front of Amarov. She was aware of the many pairs of eyes on her. "No! You will stop this immediately!"

He took a sip from his vodka. "Why?" he asked, looking genuinely curious to know her answer.

She could only stare at him. "That I even have to explain why you can't is what terrifies me."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?" she asked.

"Terrified? Of me?"

She frowned, her gaze moving to Honoria, who stood close enough to overhear the exchange, and then to Renauld, who was now seated on a velvet upholstered chair and was balancing one of the serving girls on his knee. Both were watching Hermione and Amarov.

Amarov bent his head, such that his lips grazed her ear as he spoke. "What really concerns me at this point, Hermione, is just how much I _don't_ want to terrify you."

Her stomach gave a little flip, a small jolt of triumph. Every action, every word she spoke to him would have to be weighed and measured. Precision and nuance was everything now. _Everything_.

Hermione put the full force of her distress—the one emotion she did not need to manufacture—into her eyes. She raised a shaking hand and placed it on his chest, fingers curled. "Please Alexander, don't punish them like this. Felix Wallen is person. He's a man, he's my friend and he's one of the world's finest microbiologists. Use him. Don't throw him away."

"If what I have heard of Lycanthropes is correct, he is in no danger from Belikov."

"You can't do this to Belikov ,either. It doesn't matter what he did, no one deserves to die like this and you have no right to force Wallen to be your executioner!"

"Is the monster even aware of his actions after he transforms?"

"No, not without a potion to help him retain his human mind. But there is no escaping the torment he will feel when he wakes up tomorrow morning to find he has savaged another man to death!"

"Your friend is not a man, Hermione. He's not human."

"Then neither am I. I am something else, just like him. Just like her," Hermione said, pointing a finger at a frowning Honoria. "How can you allow us to sit here with you, to wear the clothes you give us, to eat at the table with you, if you feel justified in doing this to Wallen?"

"Because a lesson needs to be learned. You were there. You witnessed Belikov lie to my face. There are repercussions."

"Belikov's only crime is foolishness. His services to the fleet and to your cause have been exemplary, haven't they? He saved my life, for God's sake."

Amarov's jaw tensed. Hermione's always expressive eyebrows rose in encouragement.

"In times such as these, mercy is weakness," Amarov explained, in a very low voice that Hermione knew that this was meant for her ears only.

"No," she whispered. "No, it's wisdom. It's measured. It's discretion. You have all this power, Alexander, _use it_."

His gaze hardened slightly, and for a moment, Hermione feared she had overstepped. "Let me ask you this—would you take Vadim's place right now?"

She didn't hesitate. "Granted, I'm useful in the lab, but Malfoy needs Belikov more than he needs me. Vadim is a Muggle. The people know him and trust him. I think it would be reassuring to have one of them working on the cure rather than an unknown wizard you recently acquired from the enemy. If you are only going to save one man tonight, then let it be Belikov, and yes, I will take his place in that Pit with Wallen." She realised he was holding her hand now, idly playing with her fingers. This, more than anything, told her that her gamble had paid off.

"Remarkable," he told her, leaning down so close to her that she thought he might actually kiss her. "You are remarkable..."

" _Alexander_." Honoria's voice was sharp. She addressed her employer, but her eyes were starring daggers at Hermione. "If you are going to change your mind, I suggest you decide quickly." She gestured at the Pit.

Though the moon was not visible, it didn't have to be to exert its ancient effect over Wallen. Brief conversations about Lycanthrophy with Remus Lupin many years ago had provided just the barest insight into what it was like to live with the condition.

"It doesn't matter how many times the Change takes hold," Lupin had told her once. "Each time it happens you think to yourself, _this will be the time I master it. I will be in control_. Only it never happens…and yet you live with the hope that the next time will be different."

Wallen was hoping and trying. She could see it in the taut lines of pain, panic and strain on his face. He was curled in the foetal position on the ground, convulsing, hugging his arms so tightly around his torso as if that could help stave off the transformation. Hermione watched, horrified, helpless and furious.

It was third year all over again. Back then, Lupin had transformed in the darkness outside the Shrieking Shack and Hermione had been too occupied seeing to Ron's injured leg to fully comprehend what she was witnessing.

But _this_ time, the light was so bright that the clarity and visibility of Wallen's transformation nearly rendered it clinical.

Several women in the crowd screamed. The back of Wallen's already ripped shirt began to split down the middle. A hump began to grow and protrude where the natural curve of his back had been moments before. It was possible to see ribs stretching and shifting under his skin. The skin was pink, raw and uneven at first, but then began to darken and thicken, coarse brown hair sprouted—fine and sparse to begin with—but by the time Wallen's knees split the seams of his trousers, the hair was thick enough that his skin was no longer visible. There was a sickening sound of snapping tendons and cracking bones. His calves and thighs lengthened and the joints where his knees had once been migrated lower. He kicked the remnants of his trousers away and rolled onto his front, gradually rising into a quadrupedal position.

He was speaking, Hermione realised. Softly at first, but then as his voice deepened, dropping past baritone into something inhuman. His neck doubled in length; thick, corded muscles undulated and grew to assist this. A snout began to appear, almost as if the lower half of his face was being pulled forward by an invisible force. When he next spoke, everyone heard, though there was no doubt it was meant for Belikov.

" _Quickly. Kill… You must. Kill me_."

More weapons rained down, some even bouncing off Wallen's back. Belikov made no move to pick up any of it. He backed up until he was almost against the walls of the Pitt. Above him, Amarov's inner circle looked down and shouted their encouragement.

And then Wallen was very still. Tranquil, almost. This was because Wallen was no longer in charge. What stood in his place was a physical manifestation of the curse he had carried ever since a hike through the wood in his native Sweden had gone so terribly wrong. The werewolf rose to its full bipedal height—tall enough that audience members on the first-level viewing gallery shrieked and began to back away from the railing.

The creature threw its massive, thick snouted head back and howled. Hermione realised she was squeezing Amarov's hand and that he was holding on just as hard. She saw him motion to guards that were stationed at the fourth level. They raised riffles.

"Horse tranquilizers," he said.

Hope bloomed in her chest. "Take him down now!"

He hesitated. Hermione could see he was conflicted. She grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, quite sure that no one had ever attempted such a thing and walked away unscathed. "Give them the signal to shoot Wallen!"

He looked so much like Malfoy in that moment that it hurt to meet his stare, which was insolent and calculating while still managing to telegraph the barest hint of affection. "Give me another reason."

"If you do this, I may just begin to trust you."

Amarov looked up at his men and gave them a subtle nod.

For posterity and because Hermione would not be Hermione if she couldn't find academic interest in such things, Hermione added the following information to her enormous, mental notebook in the event it would be useful in the future. It was possible to stop a charging werewolf in its tracks using sufficient quantities of Ketamine.

She would make a point to ask Amarov exactly what dosage of horse tranquilizers his men had used. Ten shorts were fired in total. The last one missed because the furious werewolf spun in place and managed to knock the dart off with a paw, growling at the stupefied, gawking spectators. And then the creature resumed stalking the only thing within reach that it could take out its fear and frustration on—Belikov.

The darts eventually worked, though it was almost too close for comfort. Wallen went down, his steaming muzzle landing about a meter from Belikov, one taloned paw falling mere inches from the Professor. Wallen huffed once and then was still. Belikov looked like he was about to lose his dinner. He slumped to the ground very slowly, as if concerned that sharp movements might cause Wallen to spring back to consciousness.

But that was not going to happen. Wallen had one more 'performance' to deliver. Insensate werewolves could not maintain their Lycanthropic forms. Limbs shortened, fur receded back into skin that was now slicked with perspiration. Talons became short fingernails and paws turned into the slim, blunt-ended fingers of a man. The snout, ears and tail disappeared.

What was left on the arena floor was an unconscious, naked, middle-aged man with nine tranquilizer darts spread out across his flank, back and upper torso. And it was the sight of this that brought Belikov out of his stupor. He crawled across to Wallen and pulled out the darts. Hermione held her breath as Belikov checked for Wallen's pulse. The old scientist blinked up into the gallery. With a shaking hand, he gave the audience the thumbs-up. Wallen was alive.

The audience did not know what to make of this. A few individuals clapped with as much sobriety as they could manage. There was some grumbling, no doubt from winnings that could not be collected.

Hermione grabbed her fur coat from the chair she had draped it over and walked to the railing. No one stopped her or said anything when she threw the coat into the arena. Belikov saw this and nodded at her. He carried the coat over to Wallen and laid it across the unconscious man.

Amarov wasn't entirely pleased to be the recipient of the stunned looks from his companions. And they were indeed stunned. Hermione was certain that the Games had never been called off before Malfoy had thrown that first spanner into the works by jumping into the Pit. And now, less than a month later, another bout was unexpectedly ended. While the exact reasons would remain a mystery, gossip would do the damage. The assembled crowd had seen her there with Amarov and had witnessed their exchange. Amarov had just publically demonstrated that he was willing to be swayed.

By his pet witch.

Hermione braced herself for the inevitable backlash from Amarov, but when it came, it was minimal. He was possessed of either extreme self-confidence or extreme self-control.

"Take her to the transport barge," he told Honoria. "I would like to speak to the Captains while they are here." He walked briskly to join Renauld, who was staring at her with cold incredulity.

Honoria was not gentle when she grasped Hermione's arm. "You've won the battle, but the war is something else," she hissed into Hermione's ear as she dragged her along.

"I know you hate the Games, too, Honoria."

The look Honoria gave her was of such intense loathing that Hermione flinched.

"It's not about the Games."

No. For Honoria, it was all about Amarov.

Hermione belatedly realised that she may have been mistaken. It wasn't actually Amarov she needed to be seriously afraid of.

* * *

They were escorted back by five guards. Hermione heartily wished one of them was Anatoli, but no doubt the large guard was busy with his main assignment, Malfoy. Honoria accompanied her only as far as the transport vessel. She had business to conduct elsewhere. Hermione found herself taken aboard the home ship by the guards. They were distracted as they conversed heatedly in Russian, occasionally casting her troubled, scathing looks. It had finally started raining and she was absolutely freezing without her coat. No one offered a replacement and Hermione did not ask for one.

She actually found herself glad to be back aboard the warmth and comfort of the home ship, even if it was her prison. There was less of the spectre of…well, death. Things were chaotic, however. Other residents of the ship, all members of the fleet elite who had not attended the Games in person that evening had seemingly heard about what had happened.

The guards were mobbed with aggressive questions in about three languages as soon as they stepped into the foyer. The residents wanted to speak to Amarov. Hermione noted Belikov's name was mentioned quite a bit. She assumed that many of the them were unhappy that the leading member of the fleet's scientific team and one of only three trained medical doctors had nearly been sacrificed at the Games.

Hermione was pushed and jostled. She bent down to unbuckle the straps of her high heels and then removed them, sighing with relief as she placed her bare feet upon the thick, foyer carpet. When she stood, she saw that the guards were some distance away—and only two of them had noticed this fact. They scanned the jostling crowd, looking for her.

It was then that she saw him—Malfoy. Hermione thought she could have picked him out of a crowd of a thousand people in less than a minute if she had to. It was an odd mixture of joy and misery to see him. He exited the elevator doors Hermione had passed through minutes earlier, which meant that he had also caught a transport vessel back. Had he been at the Games? He walked with his ever-present shadow, Anatoli. The two men had been talking, but fell silent as they took in the angry mob in the foyer. Anatoli bent his head to whisper to Malfoy, who nodded and continued ahead alone at a brisk pace.

Hermione didn't stop to assess the wisdom of her decision. She saw a chance and took it. Her petite size made it slightly easier to slip through the crowd. Several residents bumped into her, some stopped and stared at her quizzically, but no one attempted to detain her. As she reached the bottom of the corridor, she saw Malfoy was already half-way up the stairs to the next level. Cursing his long-legged gait, she clutched her shoes to her chest and sprinted soundlessly after him, not quite daring to call out for him to stop.

She caught up to him at the next level.


	28. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco share a moment, where she confirms her worst suspicions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains one of my favourite scenes. The amazing Avendell was commissioned by a reader to create a truly beautiful piece of art depicting the scene. https://andgladly.tumblr.com/post/642456196854464512/happilycaptainswan-she-turned-around-to-face-him

He twisted around as soon as she touched him, his left hand clamping down on her elbow, his right hand on her wrist. He applied pressure… _quite a bit_ of pressure, actually. For one tense moment, Hermione thought he was going to break her arm, but then he saw whom he had a hold off and the aggression on his face changed to surprise. He released her.

She seized her opportunity to pull him over to the nearest cabin door and try the handle. It was locked. They hurried further along the corridor and tried another door. Also locked. There were voices coming around the top of the corridor, near the stairs. Hermione wondered if she was about to badly regret her decision when the fourth cabin entrance gave way.

With a small groan of relief she opened the door, shoved Malfoy inside, and shut it softly behind her. Still holding her ridiculous shoes by their ankle straps, she looked through the peephole for a moment, checking to see who was walking down the corridor outside.

Malfoy stood in the middle of the room that was identical to his own, arms crossed, silhouetted by the night sky through panoramic windows that were devoid of drapes. He wore a black cable-knit jumper, a long grey scarf wound loosely many times around his neck, and dark jeans. Beyond the windows, the lights from the other vessels in fleet were the only thing visible in the thick darkness. They would not risk turning the lights on, however.

She turned to look at him, all of sudden not quite knowing what to say and how to begin saying what she needed to say. Whatever they ended up discussing, they needed to be expedient.

"That was a very brave and decent thing you did for Belikov and Wallen," he said, ending the silence.

Hermione rubbed her arms. It would be a very long time before she'd forget the look on the poor Professor's face. "Well, it was either that or do what you did to save Zabini. And I couldn't very well jump into the Pit in these shoes," she muttered, dropping the impractical footwear on the carpet. "Or this dress…" She plucked at the lace. There was very little give.

It was difficult to make out his expression in the darkness, but his tone was very warm when he spoke. "You have no idea how you look, do you? You've never cared in the way that most women do."

Hermione wasn't quite sure how to take that. "I was wondering when we'd resume juvenile insults, but there are more germane topics to discuss right now, if you don't bloody mind?"

"Are you paid so few compliments in your life that you cannot tell when you receive one?"

Frustrated with his calmness, Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but was hushed into silence by the sound of brisk footsteps passing along in the corridor outside.

"They're going to tear this ship apart looking for you," Malfoy said. The footsteps passed.

"It's a big ship. We should have a few minutes."

"Only a few minutes?" He placed his hand over his heart, mock wounded. "It seems you have been grossly misled as to my virility."

A furious Hermione walked over to him. "This is _not_ the time. I want some answers from you. I am going to get to bottom of Amarov's, the Ministry and your lies before Amarov's goons inevitable come in here and drag me away."

His expression as he stared down at her was once more unreadable. Hermione almost wished she was still wearing the shoes. It would be a novel experience indeed to not constantly endure Draco Malfoy quite literally looking down his patrician nose at her.

"Is he treating you well?"

"Yes. If by well you mean he treats me like a sodding doll. He won't let me assist you in the lab. Padma's treating the fleet. Even Zabini's been granted tasks that suit his talents. Keeping me locked up in my room is a complete waste of resources."

"Is that what you are—a resource?" he asked. "Or are you the doll he's keeping purely for display? And if so, does he want to play with you at some point?"

On that, Hermione was silent, but she knew they had both already drawn similar conclusions.

"I'll cross that bridge if and when it comes," she said, curtly. "What I want to know now is the truth about the source of the Infection."

"I see."

"I see? That's it? That's all you have to say?" she demanded. The fingers of her wand hand splayed widely. She made a tight, shaking fist with that hand and then wrapped it in the palm of her other hand. The urge to cast was so strong, she could feel tiny little jolts of magic building under her skin. "I'm going to ask you a direct question and you're going to give me a straight answer or I'm walking out of this room without another word. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," he said. She could have sworn the temperature in the room dipped slightly.

"Did you assist in the creation of the Infection or not?"

"Yes and no."

She'd been expecting it, but the admission still shocked her to her core. Hermione walked to the bed, sat heavily on the edge of the bare mattress and dropped her head into her hands. "I think I'm going be sick."

Her gaze was fixed on the carpet. She frowned down at the dark, geometric pattern. Presently, she saw black ankle boots enter her field of vision. A warm hand touched the back of her neck. She allowed this, even though she felt she had no right to receive that comfort, nor Malfoy to provide it.

"Ask me what you want to know, Kiska," he said, almost kindly. "We don't have much time."

"How were you captured?" she whispered, still unable to look at him.

"I know as much as you. The Ministry Prosecutors told me that I had been betrayed to the DMLE by Voldemort."

"All the information I obtained from your file said the same thing—that Voldemort sacrificed his profitable drug operation in order to punish you. But of course, since Voldemort was then killed by Harry, that allegation could never be verified…"

Malfoy snorted. "Astounding. How far you've come that you actually _doubt_ the honesty of DMLE. What changed your mind?"

"Amarov told me he was using Hendry Tan as a consultant, if not an informant. And very soon after this, your lab was raided. How fortuitous," Hermione commented, with contempt. "I don't think Voldemort turned you in, Malfoy. I think the only way the Ministry knew about that lab was because Amarov tipped them off."

"So the Ministry lied regarding how they knew about the lab in order to hide the assistance of a Muggle who was determined to reveal the wizarding world for what it was." Malfoy considered this at length. "You almost have to admire Amarov's persistence."

Hermione rose to her feet and began pacing about the room. "Why does your file imply that you were responsible for Tan's suicide? You never saw him again after you were incarcerated, but you've never denied being responsible, either."

"That's because I suspect I was indirectly responsible," Malfoy admitted.

"How?"

"The Conscience Curse."

Hermione gasped. "You cast _Paenitet_ on him?"

"Yes."

Paenitet was a difficult curse. As was the case with most dark magic of this nature, it took something out of you. A small sliver of peace and well-being was irreversibly sliced away with each casting. Paenitet was only borderline dark, but the thing about the Conscience Curse that made it particularly tricky magic was that you had to _feel_ the same regret in order to seed it and amplify it in another person. The source of the contrition was, in fact, the spell-caster.

"Why?" Hermione asked, although again, knew the answer.

Malfoy was staring out the window now, hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans. He observed the fleet as he spoke. "D.R.A.C.O was my chief assignment. It's a broad-spectrum antiviral not made for any single, specific purpose. I worked alongside Hendry Tan, but I never actually needed to know what his assignment was."

"But you guessed it was something bad, didn't you?" Hermione prompted. "Something that had the potential to inflict a great deal of damage?"

"Riddle often spoke of wanting to create a deterrent that he could keep locked up in a vault, in the event there was ever any large scale conflict with Muggles. He was of the opinion that such a conflict was inevitable."

"That deterrent was the Infection," Hermione whispered. "That's what Tan was hired to produce."

Malfoy nodded. "And I was hired to create a means of controlling it."

"You're a bioterrorist. Tan created a virus that's killed millions and you stood by and did nothing..."

Malfoy met her agonised, condemning stare. "I was hired to create a range of profitable pharmaceuticals and a cure to whatever blight Hendry Tan designed."

"But you _knew_ ," Hermione insisted. "You knew what was being created in that lab!"

"I knew it was _dangerous_ ," he clarified. "At the time, I viewed the assignment as just that—an assignment, a job, a challenge that was perfectly melded magic and science. I had never conceived of such an opportunity before, and certainly not at the behest of Voldemort."

"That is not an excuse," she hissed. And to her horror, she found that she was crying. "There can never be an excuse or penance to make up for what you people did!"

"It's not my excuse, it's merely a fact. And I am not in the market for penance, Granger. I look for opportunities." Now, there was a hardness in Malfoy's voice which almost made him sound unrecognisable to her. He leaned against the wall that divided the sleeping area from the lounge, arms folded once more. "Penance and remorse is not quite my thing, I'm sure you'll agree?"

"What about the official pardon? Were you ever truly serious about that?"

"Oh, I think we can rule that one out now." His smile was sardonic. "Would you have released me from Azkaban had I told you the truth?"

Hermione didn't hesitate. "Yes! Because you could _still_ do what we need! You _are_ doing what we need!"

"The difference is that I would have no real leverage, would I? And I suspect we would not have…whatever it is we have now."

Her tone was scathing when she spoke. "You and I have _nothing_ right now except a responsibility to get this cure out to the people as soon as possible." She paced the floor. "Why did you cast the Conscience Curse on Hendry Tan?"

"Whether you care to believe me or not, I had no intention of letting anything Tan created see the unrestricted light of day. And frankly, neither did Riddle. But I didn't _trust_ Hendry. He was unstable to begin with. He was Muggle. He wasn't a Death Eater and he had no understanding of what Riddle's movement was about—he didn't identify with it or with us. His motivations were much more...mundane."

"Money," Hermione concluded.

"And power. That virus was priceless. I took out my own version of an insurance policy in the event Hendry _did_ have a price in mind. As a result of _Paenitet_ , it seems conceivable that Tan offed himself rather than live with whatever guilt he was harbouring, but apparently not before he secreted the virus out of that lab." Malfoy paused to consider this fact. "Does Amarov know how it got through the bio-wards?"

"He said it was through a host—a wizard."

Malfoy swore under his breath. "I wish he'd informed me of that earlier, it changes how we approach mutations. And what about the original D.R.A.C.O samples?"

"I don't know," Hermione said. "The Ministry didn't report finding any samples when they raided the lab. No one outside the DMLE investigators and Prosecutors was allowed near that investigation. All they wrote down was that D.R.A.C.O had been on the manufacture list. Five years later, when we began collaborating with the Americans, they went through any relevant Ministry files and it was the Americans who suggested D.R.A.C.O's potential. They are the reason why Harry and I risked that trip to Azkaban to find you." Hermione faltered. "I assumed…I just assumed Scrimgeour simply didn't understand or didn't know that we may have had a cure all along, because of your work."

"Had the Americans not looked, that file would have gone unnoticed, and had you not defied Scrimgeour, I would still be in Azkaban now." He gave her look of such weary frustration that it brought a lump to her throat. "I may have played my part in the creation of this virus, but you do realise that the Ministry cover-up is the reason why you didn't have a workable anti-virus a year ago?"

It hurt to know that. Hermione thought of the trust and affection she held for Rufus Scrimgeour, of all the decent, hand working men and women at the Ministry, and the hurt intensified. Harry knew firsthand what it felt like to be betrayed and abandoned by Magical bureaucracy and he had always remained slightly dubious of Ministry authority. But Hermione had fallen into step as soon as her Ministry employment contract had been signed, hadn't she? She wondered now why it had been so enticing to her at the time. So…comfortable and safe and welcoming even though the work had never been truly challenging.

It was probably because that Ministry job was final, unshakeable proof of her place in the Wizarding scheme of things. How far did the secrets and lies go? What else had the Ministry and DMLE done? Malfoy had already painted such an unbelievable picture—of rogue Aurors who horribly abused their positions.

"Why didn't you say anything to the Prosecutors?" she whispered, her voice breaking. She looked at him with tear-filled eyes.

He sighed. "You know what I am."

She blinked. Two tears escaped, rolling down her cheeks. "I don't understand—"

"Six years ago, I was a Death Eater who would have killed you given the chance. When they captured me, I was a hair's breadth away from being Kissed for crimes that did not already involve aiding and abetting Voldemort. What would you have me say? Whom could I trust to carry that message? Though it is the law, I did not receive independent counsel during my trial. My Ministry appointed representation was a farce. Ultimately, locking me away ensured that the secrets of that lab stayed hidden. And from my perspective, for six years those secrets _did_ stay hidden. When they put me in that glass box, I fully expected to die there. Until I saw you."

Hermione took a step backwards to steady herself before finding Malfoy's hands cupping her upper arms. A world that was already upside down was now spinning. She was mortified. How could she falter now, of all times? This could _not_ happen. It _would_ not happen while there was still so much to do. The distant lights from the fleet whirled before her in a dark kaleidoscope.

"Easy now, breathe," she heard him say, concern replacing the earlier hardness. "Slow, deep breaths."

She tried to pull away. "I don't know what to do any more…."

" _Yes, you do_." He took more of her weight, supporting her. "Listen to me," he said, shaking her lightly. "Neither the situation nor the plan has changed. We want the same things. A cure and escape. And given what we both know about how stupidly stubborn Potter is, he's likely mounting some crazy plan to find and rescue you as we speak."

"But Scrimgeour…"

"Look past the Minister and his mistakes," Malfoy told her, enunciating each syllable sharply. "Project Christmas lives on with or without him. In the absence of expertise that could have been provided by Yoshida, Mercer, McAlister and Longbottom, I will make do with the facilities and resources here that we did not have at Grimmauld Place. And thanks to your intervention, we may have Belikov back."

"But do you need the rest of our team?" Hermione asked.

"Without them, it will take me longer," he admitted. "I don't have Longbottom's Herbology training. Processing the nectar from the Kunlun Peach has been a process of trial and error…a lengthy process."

"But can you do it?" she asked. "You must promise me you'll do it. Do what you need to do, no matter what happens."

It was the look in her eyes that gave him pause. He frowned at her. "What do you mean no matter what happens? What happens to whom? To you?"

"Promise me?"

"Answer my question!"

The door handle began to turn. They'd been found. Hermione had locked it, but this was no obstacle. There was shouting on the other side of the door. "Open!"

She steeled herself. "Time to go."

Malfoy's face was all shadows, but his unease was apparent. He ignored the pounding on the door and did not release her from his hold. "Granger—"

They tried kicking it in, which only resulted in the man on the other side crying out and swearing loudly. These were not cheap, plywood motel doors. Someone else called out for a keycard to be brought. Yet another guard had other ideas. Hermione had no hope to make out the muffled, rapid Russian, but Malfoy had no such problems. He quickly pulled her clear of the doorway just before several shots were fired clean through the door handle, obliterating the lock. The door was pushed open and the lights turned on.

Five extremely angry guards began shouting all at once. They pointed handguns at Malfoy and ordered him to release her.

Hermione turned to face them, palms held up. "No need for that, gentleman. I'm afraid I ran off to have a chat with my colleague. This is completely my fault and I'm coming along quietly now." She made to walk away, but found that she could not. Malfoy's arm was shackled around her waist.

"You haven't answered my question," he spoke into her ear. One of the guards stepped forward, addressing Malfoy in a low, threatening tone.

Oh dear.

"Draco, let me go or they're going to hurt you."

Merlin help her, she didn't want to go. She wanted to stay locked in that room with him indefinitely and to hell with…yes, to hell with culpability and responsibility and everything else. Malfoy had such enviable strength. Hermione ached to borrow some of it.

She turned around to face him. Now with the lights turned on, she could see the panic in his eyes. On anyone else, it would be stock standard in a situation like this. On Malfoy, it was vulnerability and it was damn near mesmerising. She was utterly transfixed.

"If you want to stay with me, _then I will make it so you will stay with me_ ," he said, tautologically.

And to her growing alarm, she felt tension radiate through his body, felt him take a fighting stance. As if hypersensitive to the shifting situation, she saw the guards glance nervously at each other. They gripped their weapons with white-knuckled fingers. Hermione had never really seen Malfoy in combat; had never seen him give in to the type of violence that even Harry and Ron, both such good men, had not been immune from. Welwyn didn't count because he'd been fighting zombies and she'd been half unconscious from blood-loss to remember much of it. She knew he had a reputation and she wondered if the guards were so obviously on edge because maybe they'd been there the day he jumped into the Pitt to save Blaise and Henry.

But not even a man who was lethal with a plastic dinner tray could fare well against five, armed guards. Hermione would not allow her weakness to be the cause of his death.

She licked her dry lips. "I have to go. You have to let me go now."

He dropped his forehead against hers. " _I cannot_."

A guard approached them and placed the end of his gun barrel against Malfoy's temple. No translation needed, really. Malfoy's molten silver gaze flickered across to the guard. He spoke, sounding like he'd been speaking Russian since infancy. Hermione had no idea what he said, but it was smooth, sinister, sibilant and resulted in the guard's complexion changing from red to white and then back to red again. She had to diffuse the situation, and quickly.

"You have work to do," she told him. "Fix the mess you helped create."

It worked. His hold over her loosened and that was all that was required for Hermione to be pulled from his slackened grasp.

It was almost amusing to note that one of the guards had the presence of mind to stop and pick up her detestable shoes before they left.

* * *

Blaise Zabini was covering his sleeping son with a blanket when Draco returned to his quarters. The place was in a shambles. Closet doors were open, clothing was tossed to the ground and the bed was at an odd angle. Blaise put his finger to his lips and then beckoned Draco over to the lounge room so that they would not disturb Henry.

"What in the world is going on?" Blaise hissed. "Did they really put Belikov in the Pit? Why did the guards come in here demanding to know if I was keeping Hermione Granger hidden in the sodding closet? They scared Henry half to death. It took me an hour to calm him down after they'd gone. And Merlin, what the hell happened to your face?"

Draco was silent for a moment. Then he got up, walked across to the fridge and removed a plastic bottle of mixed spirits. Alcohol was _de rigueur_ for such conversations with Zabini. He uncapped it, took a long sip and winced at the hideous concoction. Suitably fortified, he began answering the questions.

"Amarov called the Games tonight to make an example of Belikov."

Blaise swore. "So he actually went and did it. The old fool actually thought he could lie to Amarov?"

"It would seem so. He was scheduled to meet a most horrible demise at the hands of a man who spends most of his time studying and revering the tiniest of creatures…"

"Your scientist friend? They put Vadim into the Pitt to be ripped apart by a werewolf," Blaise concluded, grimly.

"Dr Felix Wallen," Draco said. He took another sip and then held the cold bottle against his swollen cheekbone. "Sans Wolfsbane Potion, of course."

Blaise sat down, heavily. "What happened?"

Draco's snort of amusement was unexpected. "Hermione Granger _happened_. She intervened, somehow managed to change Amarov's deranged mind and so Vadim—that lucky bastard—lives to see another day. Though this was not before Wallen transformed before the assembled audience and I can tell you, the Muggles will not forget that sight any time soon."

"No doubt that was Amarov's intent," Blaise said, with malice. "To parade our monsters."

"In answer to your other question, Granger saw an opportunity to speak to me and she took it. The guards weren't very impressed with my poor attitude after they took her away."

"Ah. That would explain the guards' visit here earlier."

Draco sank back against the lounge, shutting his eyes and still holding the bottle against his face. "I'm sorry they frightened Henry."

Blaise sighed. "He's dealt with worse. So where's Belikov now?"

"I don't know, but I have a feeling Granger will petition for his reinstatement at the labs. If we're lucky, it will be business as usual come morning. Speaking of which, do you have the information I asked for?"

"I do indeed. As I was running inventories today, I asked around among the maintenance crews on the other boats and yes, you were right—just like you and Patil discovered on the Games Ship, there does seem to be at least one sealed shipping container stored in the lowest deck of every major vessel, even the ones that don't usually carry any freight."

"How many containers?" Draco asked.

"Fifteen spread across ten vessels…with one notable exception."

"Let me guess—there isn't a sealed container in the basement levels of _this_ ship, is there?"

"No," Blaise said, his eyes widening slightly. "How did you know that?"

Draco replied with yet another question. "And in terms of the positioning of these ships in the fleet. Would you say they are dispersed fairly evenly?"

It took Blaise a while to come up with the answer. He went through each ship by name and relative position within the fleet. "Yes. I suppose they are. Each time the fleet drops anchor, all the larger vessels more or less maintain a consistent distance within the fleet. What does this mean? What's inside these containers?"

Draco threw the bottle to Blaise. "Our end game." He got to his feet. "Get Anatoli and Desmond. We'll meet upstairs at the labs in thirty minutes."


	29. Trade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione had a quiet moment with Amarov, much to Honoria's dismay. A planned bartering mission to the mainland may present an opportunity for the prisoners of the fleet.

The captain of the Cassiopeia was disgruntled. Thankfully, he spoke several languages including English, and so the disgruntlement was not due to language barriers. It was mostly due to bafflement.

"Say again?"

"I want you to transfer all four containers above deck and then drop them into the sea," said Blaise.

The man was chewing something. It wasn't gum. Tobacco probably. "Dis ones, dey not gonna float. Dey sink."

Blaise was possessed of vast quantities of patience. "That, my good man, is the general idea. Floating containers would constitute a collision risk."

The captain's first mate was a woman. Blaise recognised her as the spectator who had helped him and Draco during their bout in the Pit. The Cassiopeia's assistance during that game had unfortunately not gone unnoticed by Renauld, who had cut the ship's rations that week. Still, there appeared to be no hard feelings towards Blaise on the part of the captain or the first mate. It seemed the Cassiopeia did not hold a grudge.

"There's nothing inside the boxes," the first mate said to Blaise. She was much cannier than the captain. It sounded suspiciously like a question. "You want us to throw empty boxes into the sea."

Blaise countered with a cheerful, neutral expression. "Correct. They weigh a great deal and take up space and fuel that could otherwise be more efficiently used. They won't be missed. Amarov wants to lighten the fleet's load and save fuel when we set off once more."

"When he want dis done?" barked the captain.

"As soon as possible."

The man rubbed at his beard. "OK. We can do dis afternoon."

Blaise thanked him for his cooperation.

The first mate walked Blaise to his transport vessel. She was clearly used to calling the shots on the Cassiopeia, despite her youth.

"What they do to you and your son…it was very bad."

"Yes it was," Blaise agreed. "And there'll be more of that to come, so long as Amarov is in charge."

"So we find some someone who is not Amarov to be in charge?" she suggested.

Blaise paused as he climbed down a fixed, metal ladder into the waiting boat. He still had eight more vessels to visit before his task was completed for that day. "I'd be very careful whom I said that to."

She stared at him for moment, amused. "Da. That is why I tell _you_. Take care, Mr Zabini. If you need help from the 'Peia any time, you ask for Marina. That is my name."

It was tempting to speak more on the topic of sedition, but it was far too dangerous. As Draco said, knowledge could be a very risky in the wrong hands—even in Blaise's hands. After the impromptu meeting in the labs two nights ago, a plan was in motion and not even Blaise and Anatoli knew all the details.

All they knew was that the containers had to be disposed of discreetly before it came to Amarov's attention. Over the past few weeks, Blaise's visits from ship to ship with his inventory clipboard had become a familiar and mundane sight. They were counting on this familiarity to lessen the risk of the ship captains growing suspicious enough to contact Amarov regarding the alleged order to dump empty cargo containers. Not a single captain had made that call so far, likely because no one wanted to annoy an already agitated Amarov.

But Blaise had learned something on this most recent ship visit. Draco would be pleased to hear it, no doubt. The fleet was closer to mutiny than they had suspected. Even if they hated the Wizarding contingent of the fleet, the Muggles had a conscience and Amarov had been testing it beyond its endurance.

* * *

Hermione was seated at an ornate, French rococo writing desk in Amarov's personal quarters.

It was her first visit to his rooms and the first time she had actually been given something productive to do. She gathered he had gotten over his initial anger at her for publically disrupting Belikov and Wallen's match in the Pit.

On this occasion, she was allowed to wear her chosen 'prison garb'—Professor Belikov's denim trousers and matching shirt. Someone had seen fit to launder and return them, pressed and folded. There had also been a pair of socks and white sneakers in her size. Finally! Practical footwear. Hermione had no idea what she'd done to earn these particular concessions, but she was grateful for them nonetheless. Shoes meant greater mobility and less of the feeling that she was some kind of wayward child being kept in her room as a punishment.

Apparently Honoria was otherwise occupied and so Hermione had been asked to stand in as scribe and sounding board. On the desk before her was a hastily scrawled letter written by a Sir Terrence Gillies, a British property magnate who had thus far avoided the worst of the Infection with his family from inside a custom-designed underground bunker at his palatial home in Bath.

Gillies had been forced to leave the security of his bunker when his supplies ran out. He'd been ransacking warehouses along the harbourside at Avonmouth when he had fortuitously run into Amarov's men loading a boat after a supply run in the city. Gillies felt compelled to pen a note to Amarov. The message had been taken back to the fleet by Amarov's men and now lay in front of Hermione, open to consideration.

"They said he was a lunatic to build that bunker," Amarov commented. "I've met Terrence, of course. He's an inbred imbecile, but let the history books reflect that he was a _prepared_ imbecile."

"If he's a lunatic because he built a personal bunker, what does that make you?"

Amarov winked at her. "Eccentric."

Hermione resumed her task of scanning through the long, running paragraph of items Gillies was offering up in trade. Gillies' handwriting was testament to his desperation. The erratic note spoke of his dire need of fuel, if he was to keep his bunker generators running.

"There can't possibly be anything he has that we need," Amarov pondered.

"I'm not so sure about that," Hermione said. "He says he's got a portable desalination device."

"Does he, now?" asked Amarov, blue eyes blazing with new interest. To her unease, he was suddenly above her, his palms braced on either side of her on the desk, his face centimeters away. He wore a gold and onyx ring on the index finger of his left hand. His cologne was different today. It wasn't unpleasant. In fact, he'd been coldly courteous and distant since the Belikov incident. This was the most time she'd spent in his presence since.

She cleared her throat. "If Zabini's recent fleet supply records are as meticulous as he insists, we have plenty of everything Gillies' wants to swap, but the de-sal unit is priceless."

"Then why is he giving it up?"

Hermione scanned the note, trying to make sense of Gillies' chicken scratchings. "Apparently he doesn't know how to use it."

Amarov snorted. "Like I said—imbecile."

"If it works, it would be a massive boon to the fleet. No more fresh water shortages." Hermione read further along the note. "It's in pieces, so it might be prudent to verify if it's in working order before you part with any fuel for it."

He waved a hand in dismissal. "I can do that."

That earned him a look of surprise from Hermione. " _You_?"

"Before I went into the family pharmaceutical business, my undergraduate degree was in Engineering at Cambridge." He smiled at her. "Not quite Hogwarts, but I learned a thing or two."

"Surely there is another engineer in the fleet you can send?"

"Perhaps, but I'd prefer to see this through myself. Micromanaging is an unfortunate family trait."

She'd been wondering for a while now and could no longer contain the question. "What happened to your family?"

He walked towards a tall, mahogany cabinet to pour himself a drink. After checking several crystal decanters, all of which were empty, he took a new bottle from the bottom of the cabinet and opened it with a grimace.

"I suppose it would have been too much to hope that Gillies has some descent whiskey to trade. I'm running low."

"Do you not want to talk about your family?" Hermione prodded.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked, simultaneously answering her question.

"No, thank you. And I see talking about your family obviously bothers you."

Amarov walked across to a leather lounge and sat, sipping from a cut-crystal tumbler. "It does," he admitted. "And I'm fortunate to be in a position where there aren't very many things I have to do that bother me. I'm surprised you weren't briefed about my background by that American Agent…what was his name?"

A jolt of grief. "Barnaby Richards. You killed him, remember?"

"Of course I remember. I remember what I _had_ to do. As far as I was aware, he might have been in league with your Ministry."

"There's no way to confirm if Richards knew about the Ministry's attempt to cover up the existence of the Infection," Hermione insisted.

He nodded. "That's right. There was no way to confirm, so I made a decision. What is that saying? It's better to ask for forgiveness than permission? And I wasn't about to ask Agent Richards' permission for anything. I had no guarantee of my safety."

"You will never be forgiven for what you did, what you're _doing_."

"You'll note I haven't _asked_ for your forgiveness," he said, taking another sip. He gave her a shrewd look. "Not yet, anyway."

Amarov set the tumbler down on a wide, marble coffee table and learned forward in his seat. He rested his forearms on his knees. As always, he was dressed in a suit, though he had discarded the jacket hours ago. "I was never going to give you the Kunlun Peach. What would you have done then, Hermione? Abduct me? Force me to agree?" One-handed, he undid the top two buttons of his white shirt to reveal the biofeedback device. "You had no idea about _this_ ," he said. "Any inadvertent harm to me would have destroyed the fleet, the Kunlun Peach and any advancement with Re-Gen."

Damn it. He was right. He was a sociopath with sadistic tendencies, but he was also correct in this instance. Richards had been more than ready to coerce Amarov into turning over the Peach and given Amarov's unsavoury history with the Ministry for Magic, he had no reason to trust anything Richards might have said. The rescue mission had been doomed from the start. And given how meticulous Richards was when it came to strategy, this could only mean that he hadn't known about Amarov's prior association with the Ministry.

Scrimgeour had not told him. And good people had died because of it. 

"I had a fiancée. Newly minted, in fact." came the belated reply to Hermione's earlier question. He held up his left hand, showing Hermione the ring she'd noticed earlier. "She gave me this on our engagement, just a month before the outbreak. My father died years ago, but my mother was alive and well when the Infection reached us. As were my two younger sisters. One of them had two little boys—my twin nephews. They lived in London not far from me. I also had four aunts, three uncles and a total of eighteen cousins. Many of them had young families. Does that answer your question?" He was watching her closely as he revealed this.

"They're all gone." Hermione said, quietly. It didn't need to be phrased as a question. If even a single distant member of Amarov's family had survived, they would be here with him.

He drained the remainder of his whiskey and began rolling the cool tumbler between his palms.

"You put the fleet together after they died, didn't you?" she guessed.

So that was it—the fleet was the outcome of his grief and anger, and likely, his inhumane policies stemmed from some level of blame and envy directed at all wizarding people. When faced with the pain of bereavement, other people screamed, cried, ranted or perhaps threw themselves into risky situations (Harry was a good example of this).

What could you do if you had Amarov's connections, influence and money?

You could create a floating city where you had complete control over its inhabitants, which included a resident population of wizarding folk. Micromanagement, as he said. He insisted he was keeping them on board for their own benefit, but now Hermione suspected he might be doing it as some kind of indirect punishment.

He didn't offer a reply to her question, bringing their discussion back to the previous topic. "We'll make the trade with Gillies. I'll have to look at the contraption first, of course."

Hermione walked to a framed map on the wall. She traced a line with a nail-bitten finger. "For this to work, you'll have to bring the whole fleet to the nearest accessible port. That appears to be Avonmouth, seeing as that was where he bumped into your men. Maybe send Gillies a message to transport the machine to the pier?" She turned to face him, looking concerned. "How far can you be from the fleet before…?"

"Boom?" asked Amarov, amused. "Don't worry little witch, with the fleet anchored in the harbour, I can safely disembark and have a chat to Gillies without blowing everyone up."

"Good to know," Hermione muttered, though she really wished he'd tell her the precise proximity threshold for detonation. "Is it necessary for you to go personally, though?"

He stood and walked towards her. "Is that concern for my welfare I hear?"

"You know full well that this infernal device you have subjected us all to renders any concern for your welfare a moot point. You die, we all die. "

"Don't worry, I'll be fine," he said, with a small smirk. It was horrible how much he reminded her of Malfoy in that instant. "I am confident I'll be able to check that the unit has all its components and be back before sundown. If it looks in order, Gillies can have his fuel." Amarov stood nearly toe to toe with her. He was observing her closely. "This suits you."

"What does?" she asked, staring at his biofeedback panel. Blink, blink, blink went the red light.

"Helping me."

She supposed it had to happen. It had certainly been coming.

The reality of the kiss was still not something she had adequately prepared herself for. Amarov was slightly taller than her, so all it took was an almost imperceptible tilt of her head to encourage the descent if his mouth. If he'd been hesitant before, there was no evidence of it now. His lips touched hers as his eyes closed. His hand found her chin, grasping her face as he pressed harder against her, opening her mouth with his own and delving into it with his tongue. Hermione made a frightened, choked sound. No feinting required—her alarm was quite real. Amarov responded by pulling away, blinking down at her face. His hand fell to her shoulder.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come," called Amarov, without moving away from her.

Honoria entered, startled to find Hermione already there. Amarov's half-opened shirt, his hands on her person, and the drink on the table didn't help matters. Her face burning, Hermione felt compelled to take a step away from Amarov, not that this prevented Honoria from staring at Hermione with such loathing that even Amarov noticed.

"How goes our progress in the labs?" Amarov asked her pointedly.

It took a moment for the animosity to dissipate from Honoria's eyes. Her expression was more contained when she addressed her employer. "Belikov is back to work with what appears to be renewed vigour."

"No doubt Malfoy is pleased to have him back?"

Honoria sighed. "There seems to be very little that can visibly please Draco Malfoy."

"Except an impromptu visit from his erstwhile colleague, perhaps?" Amarov said, casting a reproachful sideways glance at Hermione. "You gave your minders quite a scare the other day."

Hermione smiled coldly in return. "Prisoners' perogative."

To Honoria, Amarov said, "It appears that Sir Terrence Gillies has a portable water desalination unit that we want. Tell him we agree to the trade. You will find him at his family estate. Do you know the place?"

Honoria nodded.

"Bring Gillies and his device to Avonmouth Port. Take as many men as you need." Amarov checked his wristwatch. "Give us four hours. The fleet shall rendezvous with you at the harbour. I will inspect the machine there and if it's sound, we will transfer the requested amount of fuel to Gillies."

"Alexander, I feel I should point out that the last time you left the fleet, you were kidnapped for three weeks!"

"That will serve as a cautionary tale," he said. "I won't be unprepared this time and I certainly won't be alone."

"I'd feel better if you took Anatoli with you as well. I'll find someone else to babysit Malfoy in the interim."

"Fine," he said. "Make the necessary arrangements."

Honoria stared at Hermione as she left. "As always, leave it to me."

* * *

Draco looked up from the centrifuge he was loading. He pushed safety goggles up and over his head. "Do you feel that?"

Across the lab, Belikov and the lab assistants had noticed as well. "We're moving."

"Why?" Draco asked the only person among them who was likely to know.

Anatoli shrugged. He was straddling a swivel chair, half-heartedly leafing through a sports car magazine. "Could be many reason. Could be no reason."

Draco rolled his eyes. "As helpful as that is, is there a way to actually find out?"

The answer presented itself when Honoria and four additional guards turned up at the lab. This caused no small amount of anxiety among the lab staff, all of whom warily retreated to the back of the room. Belikov's recent experience in the Pit was still very raw on everyone's minds.

Honoria was dressed for the outdoors and like the men that accompanied her, she was armed. She barely looked at the others. Instead, she crooked a finger at Anatoli, speaking to him in Russian. "You're to accompany Alexander on a trade mission."

Anatoli dropped the magazine and stood. He looked none too pleased at the new assignment. The last attempted trade mission had gone badly. "What about him?" he asked, inclining his head toward his charge.

"Malfoy stays here." She turned to the four guards. "In fact, under no circumstances will anyone leave this laboratory until I've returned. If someone tries it, hurt them."

Honoria and Anatoli left, leaving the guards standing just outside the entrance of the lab. Two of them carried automatic assault rifles in addition to the handguns that seemed to be standard issue for all fleet guards.

Draco resumed loading the centrifuge, though not before he and Belikov shared a mutual look of unease.


	30. Death Eater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Start the clock.

After a long morning spent with Amarov, Hermione was escorted back to her room by guards that were taking no more chances. They practically linked arms with her as they walked.

She'd had a shower earlier, but after her close encounter with Amarov, she could think of nothing more fitting than a bath. 

So she filled the enormous bathtub with hot water, tempered it slightly, stripped and sank into the tub. The home ship's engines had started, which meant that Honoria had disembarked or was about to. And in a few hours, Amarov would follow suit. She could feel the hum and low vibration coming up through the floor, causing the water in the tub to shimmer ever so slightly.

Hermione remained in the tub for an hour and a half. It was impossible to relax completely given the fact Amarov or his guards could enter her room at any time and she had no means to lock the bathroom door. On a slate-tiled wall ledge beside the bath were numerous tiny bottles of toiletries. There was carved soap and pumice and artfully rustic, wooden-handled loofahs that probably cost more than half a day's wage back at the Ministry.

She'd read the labels on the toiletries—back and front—despite the fact it was all in French and thus annoyed her with its non-inclusivity. A round, stainless steel face mirror on an extendable arm was mounted to the tub. She pulled it towards her and stared at her reflection, ruddy and wet from the steam, damp curls plastered along her hairline. Her lips red and glistening from the heat. Absently, she raised a hand and touched them lightly, remembering Amarov's recent kiss.

The expression that stared back at her in the mirror was one of calm contemplation. If only the Cowboy was alive to see his previously unthinkable suggestion unfold in an almost textbook, clichéd fashion, albeit on a man other than Malfoy.

Hermione had never seduced anyone in her life; not even Ron. Though there had been a time in her late teens that she would have gladly given it a go if someone had taken her aside and bloody shown her how to do it. The face that stared back at her in the mirror was so painfully unexceptional that Hermione wondered whether there was something inherently damaged about her that seemed to elicit the attention of…well, dangerous, slightly unstable, criminals.

As she ran one wet, wrinkled index finger along her lower lip, her memory drifted back to a different kiss—the one she had ceded to Malfoy in exchange for more of the D.R.A.C.O formula, and the follow-up kiss he had stolen.

OK, so maybe she and Malfoy had history, albeit one where they had tried to kill each other at least once or twice. There was also the fact that he was a brain. A really _big_ brain, hidden under compressed, diamond-hard layers of elite wizarding culture, Bloodism, daddy issues, neglect, indulgence, probably some mummy issues, and a great deal of pain and isolation.

The complexity of Malfoy wasn't enough, though. Not enough to hold Hermione's focus. She frowned as she thought about it. What was it, then? Aesthetically, he was like some sort of pale, brooding Byronic anti-hero, the sort historian Thomas Babington Macauley had once described as, _"a man proud, moody, cynical, with defiance on his brow, and misery in his heart, a scorner of his kind, implacable in revenge, yet capable of deep and strong affection."_ The kind who was banned from all the decent gaming clubs because he'd been caught counting cards—but would happily meet you with pistols at dawn if you _dared_ to call him out—and who spent his inheritance on good claret and bad women.

The notion was so fanciful that Hermione had to bite her lip to quell a smile. The point was that he seemed like that whilst somehow managing to stand beside her in quiet, almost awe-filled reverence at a scientific, technical or medical conundrum solved. He saw the same logic, patterns and meanings that she did and recognised the same exciting potentials. Hermione had been assailed, several times now, by the sensation that despite their vast differences, she and Malfoy viewed much of the world through the same lens, though his was considerably less rose-tinted than hers. They shared an uncomfortable mutual knowledge about how things essentially were.

And then there were his spectacular moments of…well, what else could you call it but Harry-level heroics? Sure, if you asked Malfoy about why he'd saved her and Alec Mercer at Welwyn Hospital, or why he'd jumped into a pit full of zombies for Zabini and little Henry, or about her life-saving surgery after she'd been shot during Amarov's rescue, he'd probably stare at you with no small amount of condescension. He'd tell you about strategy (his) and wishful thinking (yours) and you'd roll your eyes, but secretly you believed that under all that ambivalence was something deep and immensely powerful that could move him on occasion. And for Hermione, seeing that part of him again was starting to become an item on her bucket list.

With a sigh, she sat up in the tub, drew her knees to her chest and rested her chin upon them. The unpleasant thing about letting your imagination out for a walk like this was that eventually you had to reel it back in. Back to reality, to the prison that was her room and to the cooling bath she wished she could hide in forever. Malfoy was a mystery she would not have the time or the opportunity to solve. He had very important work to do. In the grand scheme of things, he was more valuable than her. She had no wand, no Harry, no Ron, no freedom. Thank goodness, then, for all the sodding time she'd had to observe and _think_.

Hermione was good at thinking.

All she had now was her ridiculous plan and unless Alexander Amarov was an even better manipulator than Malfoy, it appeared the plan was actually working.

* * *

The two ship captains tentatively waved at each other from on board their respective vessels. In the narrow channel of water between the two enormous tankers, the last six (ostensibly) empty containers in the fleet were now sinking below the waves.

Not a single call had been made to the home ship regarding these very unusual orders. There was a tacit agreement among every ship complicit in the dumping of the containers—do as told and don't ask questions lest a plan they did not yet comprehend was unwittingly unravelled. There was plausible deniability among the captains. The orders had seemingly come from Amarov himself, so why question it?

Zabini's task was complete and the fact that nothing had exploded yet was reassuring to everyone.

Though ultimately unsurprising to Draco.

* * *

Hermione climbed out of the bath, drained the water and wrapped herself in an enormous, fluffy white bathrobe from the closet. She'd just been about to dry her hair when the door to her quarters opened.

Louis Renauld, dressed in colours that would make a male peacock envious, waddled into the room, accompanied by the two guards who had brought her back from Amarov's quarters. There was a fourth man— a tall, thin man she recognised as the fleet's physician, Dr Prestin.

"What do you want?"

Renauld gave her a smarmy grin. "Good afternoon, my dear. So sorry to trouble you, but we need some of your blood. You see, we are running some tests…merely as a precaution. Nothing to worry about. Hold your arm out for Dr Prestin and we'll be done quickly."

From memory, nothing good ever came from Prestin approaching anyone with a syringe. Also, they must think she was a bloody idiot.

"You're not here to take blood. What's in the syringe?" she demanded, because it _clearly_ contained something.

Prestin sighed, giving Renauld an 'I told you so' look.

The two guards rushed her. She ducked under the hands of the first one that tried to grab her, but could not evade the second man. He tackled her around the middle, bringing them both to the carpeted floor. The man gave no quarter, he turned her over, straddled her abdomen and backhanded her across the face. The pain was sharp and intense. She tasted blood and felt the bottom left section of her lip jut unnaturally into her mouth. Despite the shock, she struggled, kicked and tried to buck the guard off. Her screams were abruptly muffled by the second guard's hand. She bit down hard on it, feeling revolted when her mouth filled up with blood.

Now, even Renauld got involved. Breathing heavily, he lowered his sizeable frame to his knees and used the belt of Hermione's bathrobe to gag her. The white terrycloth belt rapidly stained red.

"Quickly!" he hissed.

With her right arm now held down, Prestin attempted to inject her with the mystery substance. As far as Hermione was concerned, she was fighting for her life. Her violent thrashing caused the first needle to snap off her in her arm. An annoyed Prestin pulled it out and wasted no time brandishing a replacement. This time, it took all three men to hold her down so that she was sufficiently immobilized to receive the second injection from Prestin.

Hermione felt a brief stream of icy cold enter her arm and then a familiar languor overcame her. Her last coherent thought was an almost misplaced kind of relief.

It wasn't the Infection. It was a sedative.

* * *

The fleet came to a halt about three and a half hours later. It was impossible to see what was happening above-deck as the laboratory level was below the waterline. Still, everyone working in the lab heard the noise of moving equipment and heavy, booted footsteps as Amarov's landing party transferred across to a cruiser, several levels above. Amarov's decision to leave the ship on a trade mission had not been anticipated, but Draco's plan was flexible enough to allow for it. Anatoli had a role to play in said plan, which was a pity because he wasn't around. He was important, but not integral.

Unlike Zabini, who was currently outside the labs attempting to gain entry. One didn't often hear Blaise Zabini whinge, but he was putting on the performance of his life for the guards.

"Are you telling me that I carried twenty kilos of hazardous chemicals down here for nothing?"

"No one goes out!" snapped one of the guards. Their English was very basic and Zabini spoke little Russian. 

"I'm not asking for you to send someone out. We need to go in. _Inside_ , you understand?"

"No one goes out!" came the repeat reply.

"Alright," said Blaise, sounding increasingly shrill. "You lot sort this stuff out yourselves, then! I've been at it for sixteen hours! If Amarov wants to work me to the bone, at least allow me a moment to have a cup of tea or I'm not going to be of much use to you tomorrow! I'm English! I need my tea! I've been out in this weather all morning putting these boxes together!"

There was the sound of rummaging and plastic. "What is this? This is dangerous?"

"Mate, I don't have a fucking clue. I was told to not let it touch my skin while handling it and the blond twat in there also said not to breathe over it."

Draco imagined all four guards simultaneously stepping away from the boxes. In short order, the lab doors were unlocked. A quick warning glance from Draco prompted the entire scientific team to look extremely busy as the doors opened. An irate Zabini entered, balancing three boxes. This was followed by a duffle bag and two boxes. After the doors shut once more, the annoyance fell from Blaise's face. He carefully placed the boxes on a workbench.

"Is it done?" Draco asked.

"It's done," Blaise replied. "All the suspect containers are gone from every ship."

"And Henry is in a safe location?" Draco asked.

"He's with Belikov's grand-daughters on the Cassiopeia, as per the arrangement," Blaise said. "It was damned risky, but we've also successfully transferred across all of your family members in the last hour," Blaise added for the benefit of the anxious lab team.

"What about the Cassiopeia's captain and crew?"

"Marina and her men are ready. Granted, they're not terribly well armed yet, but there's a fair amount of bloodlust, I can tell you…"

"Good."

Draco quickly removed sacks of potassium chlorate and began tossing them to the lab team. There was a flurry of activity. Tension was high and nerves were stretched taut, but everyone had a specific task to see through. Plastic bags of stockpiled, unrefined sugar were taken from the shelves. One of the lab assistants began carefully dispensing drops of sulphuric acid into tiny glass ampules which were then screwed shut. Another team member lined up stoppered glass beakers on the workbench. Draco and Belikov stood at the end of this assembly line when Blaise approached him.

"We need to talk."

It was the utter dread and seriousness of Zabini's expression that garnered him Draco's full attention. "What is it?"

Blaise took in a deep breath. "I received word that there appears to be an unscheduled bout in the Pit, soon to commence."

Belikov heard this and frowned. "A game? But there has been no bell sounded. This is most unusual. Amarov would not call for a game if he's not here to witness it."

"This one's not for the fleet or, we're beginning to suspect, for Amarov." Blaise hesitated before continuing. "Malfoy, I think Renauld is putting _Granger_ in."

Draco slowly put down the beaker he'd been holding. "How do you know this?"

"I heard it from a maid who saw them carry her off the ship about thirty minutes ago. She was unconscious. They did it right under Amarov's nose just before he left the ship."

"So he never ordered it," Draco concluded.

To those who didn't know him well, the expression on Draco's face seemed perfectly contained. But Blaise had known him since they were children. He touched Draco lightly on the arm and was unsurprised to feel the tight, corded tension there.

"It seems that there are other plans afoot," Belikov said.

Blaise turned to the Russian scientist. "Something serious is happening within the inner circle. This has Honoria's stench all over it."

Belikov was not so sanguine. He looked from Blaise's troubled expression to Draco's seemingly calm one. "That young woman saved my life! Surely we are not going to let her die today!"

"How does this affect the plan?" Blaise asked. "I cannot imagine we factored making a detour to the games ship?"

Draco beckoned to another lab team member to take his place in the Molotov Cocktail production line. "You're not making the detour. I am."

"Are you sure that's wise?"

Draco stripped off his lab coat, revealing a fitted black jumper underneath. He removed several rolls of black electrical tape from a drawer and a pair of small scissors.

"Zabini, are we really going to have this conversation?" His tone was mild, almost conversational, but Blaise felt the knife's edge beneath.

"No, I don't suppose we are," Blaise muttered.

Draco held out an arm. "Then tape me up."

Blaise began unwinding tape around Draco's arms, adhering it to the jumper, rather than tightly binding his arms, so that Draco's movement would not be restricted. "How exactly are you going to get to her?"

"The plan is unchanged. We take the armoury first, then the bridge. You and Belikov initiate auto lock-down of every cabin on this ship and then broadcast the necessary fleet-wide announcements from the bridge. I'll make my own way to the games ship and bring Granger back to the Cassiopeia."

"You're convinced the other captains will fall into line?"

"I _hope_ they will."

Blaise had finished taping around one arm. Draco experimentally bent his elbow to check for flexibility. He glanced at a wall clock. When he next spoke, he addressed the entire lab team.

"Ladies and gentleman, we're at least three hours away from the last containers we've dumped overboard, which means that we should be well and truly past whatever detonation boundary Amarov claimed to have set."

"There were no explosions," Blaise elaborated. "We would have heard or seen something otherwise."

Draco nodded. "And Amarov remained none the wiser the whole time. His biofeedback device has apparently not registered anything anomalous. What does that tell us? More importantly, what does that tell the captains?"

Belikov looked slightly overcome. He dragged a chair forward and sat down heavily. "My God. _It was all a bluff_ ," he said. "No bombs, no danger."

"He's vulnerable now," Blaise concluded, with a small, sinister smile.

"He always was," Draco said. "He was just clever enough to play on our fears."

"Did you suspect this all along?" Belikov asked.

"Yes, and I don't believe I was alone. However, there was the concerning presence of supposedly empty containers that were unaccounted for on these ships. We had to neutralise that perception of threat."

"Did he plant them there just in case anyone went looking for evidence of hidden explosives?"

"Well _we_ looked, didn't we?" Draco said to the Professor. "Can you think of a better deterrent? No one would risk opening those containers without knowing what was inside them."

Belikov stood. "Even if we set the people free, Alexander cannot remain. He will die before he lets the fleet go."

By now, Blaise had finished taping up Draco's other arm. There was just enough black tape left for Draco to wrap it around his palms and knuckles, leaving his fingers bare. He opened the duffle bag and removed the dismantled tranquilizer rifles that had been used to take Wallen down. Unlike the weapons currently contained within the home ship's considerable, locked armoury, these ones had been kept unsecured just outside Wallen's cell.

"Amarov is not going to survive the end of today once we inform the citizens that they are free to do as they like," Blaise pointed out.

Draco finished screwing together the various components of the tranquilizer rifles and then strapped one of them across his back. He put his white lab coat back on, buttoning it up.

Blaise stared at him.

Draco stared back. "I'm going to go and get her, Zabini."

"I know. Don't die. Henry is very fond of you."

"He's fonder of his _father_. Stay alive."

"I shall do my best," Blaise said. 

In the background, Molotov Cocktails wrapped in wads of toilet paper were being carefully loaded into backpacks, makeshift weapons were retrieved from hiding places, distributed and concealed in pockets.

Draco turned back to the rest of the team, most of whom looked like they were about to wet themselves from fear. These people were scientists, not soldiers. But there was a fortitude and righteousness alongside the fear, honed over months of living under Amarov's yoke.

"If anyone wants to back out, do so now. I won't have any second thoughts travelling with us today. You'll only get your colleagues killed."

No one moved. No one said anything.

Belikov took a scalpel from the workbench and stared down at it. With gravitas, he said, "It is a truly terrible thing that I hold this in my hand today with the intent of harming another living soul." He sighed. "I took an oath as a young man, you know?"

Blaise and Draco were loading up their boots with all manner of destructive, pointy implements. "Don't worry, Professor. We'll get you a gun soon enough."

That wrung a wry chuckle from Belikov. "Appreciated, Mr Malfoy."

"Oh, to be able to hold a wand again," Blaise said, under his breath. He stretched and then clenched his right hand.

"This would be short and beautifully violent work, indeed, with magic."

Blaise sighed. "Stop, you'll make me cry. Are we ready now?"

The fleet's resident Death Eater nodded. "We're ready. Start the clock."


	31. Begin

First, there was the sound of glass breaking (beakers thrown to the ground). This was followed by an argument in English—involving two men, some name calling and obligatory shoving—and then several folding chairs were flung at a wall, for good measure. The cherry on top of the lure sundae was a short, sharp scream from one of the female lab members.

In short order, all four guards burst through the laboratory doors to determine just what the hell was going on. They were confronted with the confounding sight of Draco and Blaise wrestling on the ground, or, more to the point, Blaise had Draco pinned to the floor and appeared to be strangling him. Other lab team members stood around the fighting pair, looking hapless and alarmed.

Belikov rushed forward, a study in long-suffering resignation. "Gentleman, will you please stop these two hot-headed fools before they break anything else in my lab!"

Hands that had been nervously hovering over weapons relaxed. Belikov was clearly not in a panic. This was no emergency. This was what happened when stress and fatigue caught up with you. Even the eggheads were not immune, it seemed. The guards knew all about short fuses that could be lit by weeks of tension and fatigue.

"Here, now," admonished one of the guards. He repositioned his automatic rifle across his hip and buried his hands into the back of Blaise's jacket. He pulled. "Stop this!"

The other members of the lab team tightened the circle, herding the guards closer to the tussling wizards. Blaise spun around as soon as he felt the guard's hands on him. A chloroform-soaked rag was immediately pressed up against the startled man's face. He crumpled to the ground beside Draco, who struck out with his foot, knocking a second guard under the chin just as he reached for his pistol. The man staggered backwards and was promptly smothered with chloroform by two female lab technicians. This left two additional guards, who were beset by at least a dozen scientists. They jumped on top the men, pinning them to the ground and divesting them of their weapons and walkie talkies. There was quite a bit of yelling and an unfortunate woman caught a flailing fist to the face, but the guards' struggling was quickly remedied with chloroform and the enthusiastic application of masking tape.

After it was done, Blaise tossed the rag into the corner and swaying a little on his feet. Draco grabbed Blaise's arm to steady the man.

"I did tell you not to breathe it in."

"Yes, you did," said Blaise. He shook his head vigorously, to rid himself of the woozy feeling. "How did you manage to make this stuff?" This question was directed at Belikov, who had been in charge of concocting the chloroform.

"With a combination of bleach, acetone, ice, and happily, the oversight of thugs who know nothing about chemistry," Belikov replied.

Draco was assisting the lab team in tying up the unconscious guards. Presently, he stood back to admire their handiwork. Now came the tricky bit. He slipped off his white lab coat and began distributing the pilfered weapons.

"We're going to be doing a fair bit of running, so only carry what you need," Draco told Blaise and Belikov. "The weight won't feel like much now, but it will when we're on the move." He slung a rifle across his chest and tucked a pistol into the waistband of his trousers. One of the walkies was clipped onto his belt. Belikov showed him how to mute the volume and change channels. Draco then retrieved an elastic band from a drawer and tied his hair back. Several shorter strands escaped, but he tucked these behind his ears. "Take your lab coat off," he instructed Belikov. "Nothing bright, white or likely to show around corners when we're skulking. We'll be noticed soon enough, but the later that happens, the better."

One of the three remaining walkies crackled. There was a brief static buzz, followed by a long stream of heated Russian.

"What's being said?" Blaise asked. He had removed his coat and jumper and was now, like Draco, more suitably attired in dark colours. A member of the lab team handed him a backpack loaded with Molotov Cocktails. He very carefully slipped it on.

Draco listened with a frown. "The guards are unsettled. They're talking about the unscheduled fight in the Pit." He paused and then looked across at Blaise. "There are apparently _two_ combatants."

"Two?" Blaise looked up with a frown. "Who is the second?"

But the chatter ceased. There was no more information coming through.

"Two against many is better than one against many," Blaise said. He was clearly recalling Draco's unexpected assistance in the Pit.

"It will buy Miss Granger some time," Belikov added.

If all this was meant to reassure Draco, he gave no indication that it did, or that he needed it. He walked to the lab entrance and checked the corridor outside. It was clear.

"Let's move."

* * *

The sunshine was piercing.

Hermione instinctively screwed her eyes shut and brought up an arm to shield her eyes from the painful glare. Her arm felt encumbered, thicker than usual. Her bare wrist brushed against something fine and soft, suspended just above her face. Curious, she splayed her fingers apart and felt what she registered to be long, unbound hair thread through them. Confused and groggy, she attempted to sit up, only just noticing that her head was pillowed on…why yes, that was _a lap_.

"Easy now. I have no idea what they gave you, but it was bloody strong."

"Padma?"

Hermione blinked rapidly. She raised herself up into a sitting position, using Padma's arms for support. This simple movement caused the meagre contents of her stomach to roil back and forth. She swallowed audibly, hoping to quell the acute sensation of seasickness. All the while, the sun burned down over them. Only, there was no heat. It was bitterly cold, in fact. As Hermione regained her bearings, she discovered that they were not outdoors. The glare of sun was the massive spotlight that shone over the Pit.

_Oh no._

Padma's returning stare was one of grave concern. "They brought me in first. And then they dropped you at my feet, unconscious. That was about half an hour ago."

Hermione pulled her ankles into a cross-legged position. Presently, she was not too out of sorts to ignore the fact that there were bits and pieces of people littering the floor. She stared down at her clothing, only just noting that the confining sensation was due to her being dressed in some sort of workman's jumpsuit, with rubber boots. No sign of the bathrobe. At least they had given her clothing.

"I was tackled in my room by Renauld and Dr Prestin. They stuck me with something…knocked me out."

"Yes, well I think they dearly wished they'd done that with me, too." Padma held up her hands so that Hermione could see the blood and bits of skin under her fingernails from where she had presumably scratched the men who'd taken her. "I've heard of the Games, of course. We all watched on helplessly when they took Wallen away and then brought him back. But I've never been allowed to witness any of the matches. Have you?" Padma's baleful stare was heartbreaking.

"Yes."

"Are we being made to fight zombies today?" Padma asked, in such a matter of fact tone of voice that Hermione felt the rage rise up inside her.

The question was _insane_. It belonged in an alternate universe.

Using her hand to shield her eyes against the bright spotlight, Hermione got to her feet and peered up into the stands. There, on the first level of the viewing gallery, was the familiar large shape of the Fatman.

Renauld was alone. Hermione was not surprised. There was no doubt in her mind that the fight was unsanctioned. Amarov was back on land, likely unaware. And where was Honoria? Surely Renauld had not taken such drastic action without her involvement?

"Think about this," Hermione called out. Without a crowd, the Pit was so silent that she did not need to shout. Her voice carried easily.

Renauld walked to the railing and sneered at her. "We have given it much thought. You are a danger to the fleet."

"How exactly am I a danger?" Hermione asked. "Amarov keeps me locked up almost twenty-four hours a day!"

"It is precisely because of Alexander that we are doing this. Since your arrival, he has been…distracted."

"By distracted you mean he's managed to reconnect with his sodding humanity!" Hermione swept her arms wide to indicate the Pit, letting the bleak reality of the situation colour her expression and her tone. "What the hell do you think this is, Mr Renauld? This is not a means to maintain order or exact penalties. This is monstrous! This is torture and sadism! To call it anything else is delusional!"

"The delusion _works_ , Miss Granger."

Hermione laughed. It was a full-throated laugh that conveyed the depths of her incredulity. "It works for people like you, you mean?" She nodded as she said this. "For the elite in this fleet who make the rules? History will judge you by how you treat the most vulnerable in your care."

"We are not exempt from the rules, either! You saw what happened with Vadim!" Renauld's voice cracked.

"That scared you, didn't it?" Hermione stated, nodding. "I see it now. Amarov dared to put one of _you_ into the Pit, rank, station and utility be damned. If you have a problem with Amarov's brand of consistency, why take it out on me? It's him you have an issue with. Talk to him. Counsel him, if you must."

" _You_ are the issue, Hermione. Not Alexander," answered a female voice. It was Honoria. She appeared at the fourth level of the viewing gallery carrying a duffle bag. Renauld was relieved to see her. She climbed down the metal staircase to join him. Clearly, Honoria had just boarded the vessel. She was dressed for the outdoors in trousers and a thick, dark coat. Her long, straight brown hair was windswept.

"You're back earlier than expected. Where is he?" asked Renauld.

"Still at Avonmouth loading the desalination unit into the boat. We don't have much time."

Renauld frowned down at Hermione and Padma. He spoke to Honoria again, but this time, it was in Russian and he was making an attempt to whisper.

Hermione could not make out what was being said, but she recognised a disagreement when she witnessed one. She felt Padma come to stand beside her.

"What's going on, do you suppose?"

"Dissention within dissention, it would seem," Hermione replied. "Whatever they decide to do, they're going to have to do it soon before Amarov finds out."

"What's your relationship with this man? Correct me if I'm wrong, but it sounds like he doesn't want you in here."

"You're probably not wrong."

"You have a plan, then?"

Hermione sighed. "Stall these two until Amarov returns?"

Padma appeared to be thinking. "You know, it's not that big a fleet. Word gets around quickly, especially among the guards. If anyone else knows about this impending game, the news is likely to have reached the labs by now…"

"He's _not_ going to come," Hermione said, giving Padma a sceptical look. "Not even Malfoy is going to be able to singlehandedly fight his way through guards on both vessels in order to reach us. And he wouldn't put himself at such risk. Not when there is so much at stake."

"Now who is the delusional one?" Padma hissed. "And I don't think you have full comprehension of what that man is capable of. Did you know he and some other allies have been sneaking supplies to the Magical captives on this ship?"

This was news to Hermione. Damn it, it was _all_ news to Hermione. She'd been cloistered away for so long.

"And if you're going to refer to what's important to Malfoy in terms of _his_ priorities, I daresay you rank higher than the wellbeing of those captives!"

"Padma—"

"Don't _Padma_ me," said an annoyed Padma. She exhaled some of her frustration. "All I'm saying is that if Draco Malfoy knows we're in here, it's very likely he's going to try to do something about it."

Hermione was terrified by this prospect. "What could he possibly do?"

Padma shook her head "I don't know." She stared around the arena. Her gaze dropped to her feet. "Hermione, I don't want to die here today."

No. Padma was _not_ going to die there today.

With renewed resolve, Hermione took a step forward and addressed Honoria, who was still in heated debate with the Fatman.

"Honoria, pray tell how does killing Padma solve the problem of my alleged influence over Amarov? Are you so spiteful that you're willing to dispose of one the few fleet doctors because you have a problem with _me_?"

It was clear that Renauld felt similarly disturbed by the prospect. He gave Honoria a pointed look.

"Padma is here because she matters to you," was the simple reply.

Hermione didn't think she had it in her to be even more horrified. "You're really that malicious?"

"I suppose I must be."

"Why put us in the Pit?" Hermione demanded. "Why bother with all this when you could just shoot us?"

"Because finding you in here will remind Alexander of the responsibility he took on when he created this fleet!" Honoria screeched. She was holding onto the railing with both hands, leaning over and fairly screaming at them. "Don't you see? He needs to remember! I have given _everything_ to him. I have done things in his name that would turn your stomach! I have acted against my own people for him! What has it all been for if he is permitted to change his mind on a whim? Because of a witch, of all things! _This_ is where we pass judgement! _This_ is how we deal with anything that threatens our order! He will remember that fact!"

"Merlin on a broomstick, she's stark raving mad," Padma muttered.

"You don't really believe that, though," Hermione implored. "You know this is wrong, that it has always been wrong. You're doing this because you _love_ him."

Honoria was apoplectic. She looked like she'd been struck across her face.

Hermione turned her attention to Renauld, staring at him with unwavering intensity. "Amarov may very kill you for this. Is your life worth her jealousy?"

Renauld paled, but said nothing. He managed to cast a sideways glance at Honoria, but was quelled by the white-hot mania in her eyes.

"Open the hatch," she ordered, in English this time. Renauld retreated into the darkness. Shortly thereafter, the familiar dreaded buzzer sounded.

"You cowardly little bitch!" Padma yelled, with such ferocity that would have captivated the late Alec Mercer. "You want to take it out on us, come down here and do it yourself!"

Hermione thought this was a capital idea.

Honoria smiled. "The pair of you would not fare so well, I assure you. But I suppose it would be more dignified than being taken apart by zombies."

" _We are not fighting zombies today_!" Hermione roared.

"You're correct; not _just_ zombies," Honoria said. "You see, only one person leaves this Pit alive. As soon as one of you is dead, the Game ends. "Think on that."

She bent down to unzip the bag she had brought with her. Weapons were tossed into the Pit, scattering across the metal-grated floor with loud clangs—machetes, an axe and a length of pipe. "Never let it be said that I don't play by Amarov's Rules. Good luck, ladies. May the best witch win."


	32. Draco

The elevator doors opened with a soft 'ding', revealing a stout, middle-aged woman standing behind a trolley bearing what looked like someone's room service order. She had a cigarette dangling from one corner of her mouth and faded tattoos adorning her forearms and fingers. Her starched white maid's uniform and apron looked contrastingly genteel. She stared at them, impressively nonplussed as she held the elevators open with an angled trolley wheel.

Draco slowly raised his pistol, pointing it at her face while simultaneously holding a finger to his lips.

"Is this what I think it is?" she barked, in Russian. Her gaze was directed at the only one of the three men she easily recognised—Belikov.

"We are taking the fleet back," Belikov replied.

"Hah! It's about time!" The woman snorted out a cloud of smoke. "I might just borrow this handsome one's gun and shoot myself in the head if I have to spend one more day waiting on these oily bastards! You can use my elevator key card to access any of the other levels." She plucked a white card from her deep décolletage and handed it to Draco with a lascivious grin.

With a final scan of the corridor to make sure they had not been detected, the men entered the elevator. Draco pressed the card to the sensor and hit the button to take them to the bridge level. Cheerful elevator music played as they travelled upwards. Before they arrived at their destination, Draco hit the stop button, bringing the lift to a halt.

Blaise was busy inspecting the food on the trolley. He lifted the lid of a silver tureen and stuck his finger into a stew. Draco shot him a look.

" _What_? I'm starving."

"How many men are likely to be on this level?" Draco asked the maid.

"About fifteen, at most. Heavily armed, but lazy. There's a tall one with a shaved head. He almost never leaves the bridge. Got a face like a bulldog. He's the one to watch. They call him Sasha and he's middle management when it comes to Amarov's guards. Take him down first and the others will scatter."

"Thank you for your help," Belikov said, because Draco didn't.

"You'll have to tie me up, of course," said the maid. "If whatever you're planning doesn't work, I'd like to keep my job _and_ my head."

Belikov managed a smile. "Fair enough." He reached into his bag to retrieve some rope, but paused when the woman held up a stalling hand.

"No offence, but not you Professor. _Him_ , please—the chocolate one." She grinned at Blaise, revealing several gold teeth.

Some gestures did not require translation. Blaise was chewing on a pilfered profiterole, but didn't miss a beat. He wiped his hands on his jumper and took the rope from Belikov. "It would be my pleasure, madam."

* * *

Hermione and Padma armed themselves with machetes.

It was the most logical choice. Hermione picked up the pipe and tossed it into the far corner, lest they trip over it and turn an ankle. Several minutes after Renauld had triggered the buzzer that opened the zombie hatch, the first group of creatures were yet to come through. Although the stench that filled the arena was enough to bring bile to the back of Hermione's throat.

And of course you could _hea_ r them — sharp hisses, low, soft moans, the occasional chittering noise. A growl.

Hermione's thick, rubber boots were too large that simply walking in them demonstrated that they were likely to be a hindrance. She kicked them off, hoping that her bare feet would not slip and slide too much along the cold, metal grating once blood and viscera started to fly.

"Forgive their tardiness," Honoria called out, from her safe vantage point. "The creatures have not been fed in a while and are on their last legs. If you survive the next few waves, there'll be a treat at the end. I promise."

Padma's gaze was fixed on the darkness of the hatch entrance. Both hands were wrapped around her machete handle with white-knuckled intensity. "What's that lunatic talking about? What's coming at the end?"

"I have no idea," Hermione admitted. "Padma, back up! One's just walked through."

It was a sorry specimen indeed—male, nude, skin stretched over bones, a large gaping hole along the side of its abdomen where about two meters of small intestines trailed, occasionally becoming entangled in the creature's legs. There was a dried up clump of matted tissue where its reproductive organs had once been—chewed off, seemingly. It was ecstatic to see them, lurching and snarling as it went. Its hands stretched out towards the women, fingers that were tipped with long, black fingernails, curled into claws. The snarling dropped down into a low, keening moan.

Padma easily darted around and hacked at its neck. Half-rotted tendons snapped immediately, causing the creature's heavy head to loll to the side, but the spine at the top of the neck was another matter. A taller, stronger combatant would have had the leverage and the power required to decapitate the zombie with a single strike, but this was not the case here. The blade of Padma's machete lodged in between vertebrae. Padma had the presence of mine to brace against the creature's torso with her foot and yank her weapon free. Hermione promptly brought down her own machete over the creature's head, cleaving its skull. It fell over and stopped moving.

They had just finished pulling the corpse over to a corner, out of the way, when two more zombies entered the arena.

* * *

In a bid to conserve energy, much of the fleet existed in perpetual darkness. Pilot lighting was used in lieu of less economical fluorescent rods along corridors and other areas that were not frequently traversed. This thankfully included several corridors along the home ship, leaving just enough darkness for Draco, Blaise and Belikov to make their way to the bridge undetected. Upon arriving, however, there was no getting past the four guards loitering outside without direct intervention. Amarov's lackeys obviously spent a lot of time there. It was perhaps testament to Amarov's recent lapse in management that the place was in such a state. There was a small, chipped table not far from where Draco stood, likely used by the guards for meals and to play cards. Several folding chairs were stacked against the wall. Refuse and cigarette butts littered the carpet.

Once Blaise was in position at the opposite corner of the corridor's t-junction, Draco gave Belikov the signal.

The elderly scientist stumbled out into the corridor, in full sight of the four men that smoked and chatted outside the doors that led to the bridge. Belikov frantically beckoned them to him, before he staggered, clutched at his chest and hit the floor with full Shakespearean theatrics.

Unfortunately, only one of the guards ran over to check on the Professor.

 _They're not coming_ , Blaise mouthed to Draco.

Draco held his palm up. _Wait._

The guard who was squatting beside the convulsing Belikov was at a loss. He called out to his colleagues, clearly assuming that the fleet's head scientist was in the midst of a heart attack and there was going to be a lot of unpleasantness if they didn't at least attempt to save him. The other three men joined their panicking colleague. One of the men dropped to his knees and began to open Belikov's mouth to clear his airways in preparation for CPR.

Draco emerged from the adjacent corridor and without pausing in his stride; pistol whipped the guard closest to him before running a knife across the neck of another. Any visible weapons were immediately confiscated. Blaise dragged the second man backwards into the shadows to bleed out. Draco had by now driven his knife into the neck of the third guard. The CPR Good Samaritan was the only one who had managed to free his pistol in time, but had not counted on the previously 'unconscious' Belikov sitting up and stabbing him in the chest. The scalpel was unfortunately deflected by the man's sternum and he was able to scramble to his knees and run with the blade still protruding from his chest.

"Oh, dear," Blaise said, "he's getting away,"

If the guard made it to the bridge or screamed to alert his comrades, their plan would end rather prematurely. Instead of sprinting after the man, Draco grabbed a folding chair, swung it in a wide arc and then threw it. It sailed through the air, eventually colliding with the guard across the back of the man's head. He grunted and stumbled sideways, slamming hard against the wall. His gun flew from his hand, landing close to the bridge doors.

By the time he raised himself up into a sitting position, Draco was on him, once more holding the chair. In sheer desperation, the guard resorted to using the only weapon he had left—the scalpel. He pulled it from his chest and wildly slashed out with it. Draco promptly kicked the man in the stomach and as he lay wheezing and winded, stood on his wrist, pinning the man's hand and the scalpel to the floor. The guard had only just begun to gather breath to scream for help, when Draco opened the folding chair, lodged the man's head in between the back-rest and the seat, and then twisted sharply. There was a sickening crack as the guard's neck broke. They searched the man's clothing, finding the security swipe card that would open the bridge doors. Draco retrieved Belikov's scalpel, wiped it on the dead man's sleeve and handed it back to the Professor. Blaise quickly assumed clean-up duty, dragging away the body.

Belikov was looking ill. " _Bozhe moi._ You killed a man with a plastic chair..."

"It's quieter than a gun."

Draco used the guard's security card. The doors unlocked soundlessly. Inside the bridge, there was talking and the noise of cutlery on plates. The men were eating. Draco quickly scanned the interior and then let the door fall shut once more, leaving it ajar only a few centimetres. "I count twelve," he whispered. "Mostly seated by the windows with their backs facing us. Four are standing by the navigation console on the far left. As the maid said, they're armed, but they will be entirely unprepared for this."

Blaise crouched down to unzip his backpack. He pulled out two Molotov Cocktails. "I gather this is the bit where we finally get to make some noise?"

"A lot of noise," Draco confirmed. He now held a pistol in his gloved hands. "The time for stealth has passed."

"Tell me again how starting a fire on the only ship in the fleet with a laboratory is a good idea?" Belikov asked. "If we destroy the home ship, all our research will sink with her."

Draco took one of the Molotov Cocktails from Blaise. " _These_ are chemically designed to burn hard and fast without us having to light a fuse. They will ignite on impact, but they will spend themselves quickly. In the unlikely event of fire escaping this room, the ship's disaster safeguards will activate. This may be Amarov's home, but it's also a state of the art, passenger cruise-liner. The sprinkler system will not allow us to burn the ship into Avonmouth Harbour. Our explosives will disorient and incapacitate the guards and that is precisely the advantage we need."

Blaise sighed. "What are the odds that we're riddled with bullets in the next ten minutes? I'd very much like to see my son again."

Draco took Blaise's weapon from him to check that the safety was off and that it was fully loaded. "Reasonably high if we don't approach this assault with a sound strategy." He handed the gun back.

"You know, a comforting lie wouldn't go amiss right about now."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "A comforting lie would unravel rather quickly once the bullets come. We have the element of surprise on our side. Trust in the capacity of people to panic when given half a chance. Stick to the plan and we _will_ come out of this in one piece. Remember everything I've told you. Aim for the head when they're stationary. Don't get cocky. Switch to aiming for the torso once they're on the move. It's a larger target for a novice to hit and you will _need_ to hit every single person you shoot at. Work systematically through your assigned section of the room and try not to crossfire."

"But these men are _trained_ ," Belikov said.

An attack of second (or for that matter, _third_ or _fourth_ thoughts) was expected, given the circumstances. Draco's expression communicated his chilly confidence. This worked markedly better in reassuring the other two men than any heartfelt verbal appeals to simply trust his plan. There were also the dead bodies hidden in the shadows, mere meters from where they stood, still leaking warm blood into the carpet. Draco had thus far demonstrated a level of professional villainy that the other two had little experience with. Slytherin sensibilities or not, Blaise's hands were shaking and Belikov was white as a sheet. But they took strength from the imposing figure before them. Draco's black attire adequately masked all signs of blood stains, but there was a visible smear of red in his light-blond hair and some spatter along the fair skin of his face. He looked at them now, silver eyes so very, very cold.

"Gentleman, I assure you there is no training that can adequately prepare a man for _being on fire_."

And as it happened, that was all the pep-talk they needed.


	33. Freedom: Part 1

Blaise stared down at his hands, which were shaking so violently it was a miracle he hadn't dropped his gun. His ears were still ringing from the gunfire. A moment was spent simply trying to calm his breathing. He swallowed the bile that had risen to the back of his throat and retreated away from the carnage on the bridge until his back met the wall beside the bolted bridge doors. The automatic window shutters had been turned on, shielding the activities on the bridge from prying eyes outside. Blaise slid to the ground, forearms coming to rest on his knees. He heard his breathing; ragged, inconsistent and somehow still the loudest noise in the room. That reinforced the fact that he was alive.

It seemed impossible, but all three of them were alive.

Others had not been so lucky.

Interspersed with the occasional blood-choked gurgle, some of the guards moaned and begged for help. Blaise stared dully at the ground, at the small, viscous pools of blood on the carpet. In the smoky, flickering light, they looked like innocuous, dark puddles of engine oil. It was easy to spot Belikov from his gait alone, nervously pacing, retracing his steps back and forth as he stepped over the dead and dying, putting out spot fires from the Molotov Cocktails. There was the chemical smell of burning textiles and plastic. The fire extinguishers left a powdery haze in the air that felt like chalk dust in your lungs when you inhaled too sharply.

He also heard Draco's voice—low and curt—talking to the guard known as Sasha; the one the maid in the elevator had said would be here. And he had been. They'd gaffer-taped the man to a swivel chair. The man owed that maid his life, for Sasha had been saved from the slaughter because they needed at least one guard to order a transport vessel to ferry Draco to the Morning Star.

Gun shots sounded. Not the rapid fire from minutes earlier. These ones were calm, if indeed such a thing was possible. They came at almost evenly-timed intervals, sometimes preceded by weak pleading.

_Bang._

"No…no! Please…"

_Bang._

"P…pohzhahloostah!"

_Bang._

Blaise's gaze was still trained on the ground when a pair of sturdy, black boots stopped before him. Draco lowered himself down to his haunches, gun still in hand and smelling like freshly burned fireworks. He waited until Blaise was looking back at him. The unofficial leader of their coup sported a fine spray of misted blood across the entire left side of his face and some of his dark trousers were powder blasted from the fire extinguisher, but otherwise Draco had the demeanour of a man who'd done nothing more untoward than the recent extermination of vermin from his home.

It wasn't too much of a stretch to recall the bratty child and then the callow, self-serving youth that Draco had once been. Blaise remembered the fierce, burning intelligence that played second fiddle to blood and family ambition. But something had changed in their final year. It was a bad time to be in Slytherin or to be associated with any aspect of the old Wizarding nobility. The world had been changing around them. The diverse student body and faculty at Hogwarts and shifting Ministry governance was testament to that fact. It was easy to see that Voldemort and his ilk were swimming against the tide in a pool that now consisted of mixed-bloods, muggleborns and muggles, with their technology and inescapable, alluring modernity. It was much harder to voice some opinions, however, depending on your last name. As much as Blaise had envied Draco when they were growing up, he did not envy the Goliath burden that came with being Lucius Malfoy's son. That was a life of immense privilege, but it was also the worst type of prison—the kind that felt like your unfortunate birthright.

"And how are we faring?" Draco asked him, in her Muggle Majesty's pristine English.

"Alright, I think," Blaise said. He nodded, though he was not sure why. "Shoot them all in the head, you told us. I missed quite a few…heads."

Draco shrugged one shoulder. "You still hit them. I've taken care of it."

"You killed the wounded, you mean."

This time it was Draco's turn to nod. "We cannot leave them as they are, Zabini. Many are badly burned."

"You mistake my meaning. I understand that completely. I just wish I had greater…fortitude."

Draco holstered his weapon and offered his hand to pull Blaise up to this feet. "You survived up to this point. I'd say that's fortitude plenty."

Blaise disagreed. He located Belikov on the other side of the bridge. If the old scientist had looked green before, he was positively phosphorescent now. They exchanged tense nods. Nodding seemed to be the least emotionally taxing communicative gesture.

"What now?" Blaise asked.

Draco was hovering over the mass expanse of bridge consoles, beckoning Belikov to wheel Sasha over. "Stick to the plan. We lock down the vessel, broadcast a fleet-wide announcement and then I catch a ride across to the Morning Star. Make sure the transport vessel meets me at the western exit. Contact Marina and her captain and tell them to bring the Cassiopeia alongside. Then, they board. After this ship is secured, wait for my confirmation before you send the Cassiopeia to the Morning Star."

Belikov approached. "There are ships that will leave the fleet, you realise? Some of these vessels will be carrying supplies and we have no means to stop them from going."

"That's the catch, Professor," Draco said. "The people will exercise their right to freedom under their own terms, even if it is to our detriment. But we have this ship, so the laboratory will remain."

Blaise joined them at the console. "Do you think most will stay behind?"

"I don't know," Draco admitted. "I suppose it will depend on the leadership to come." He began walking around the bridge, divesting dead guards of their weapons. When he'd strapped on additional holsters and furnished Blaise and Belikov with as many weapons as was practical to carry, he stood at the heavy doors of the bridge. Blaise handed him the backpack.

It was surreal, Blaise decided. All this was too bloody surreal. Here he was staring at a fellow wizard, strapped up with enough Muggle weaponry to take down a small army and _somehow_ , it all managed to fit within their recent, collective definition of 'normal'.

Draco tested his walkie talkie unit. Belikov confirmed it was good to go.

"Barricade yourselves in here until Marina's people board," Draco told them, as he reloaded a handgun clip. "Even after lockdown, some of the local residents are going to try their luck."

"I'm going with you," Blaise offered.

In that dark moment, in that horrendous place with dead bodies around them, some of whom were still leaking warm blood into the carpet, Draco Malfoy's amused smile was a thing of beauty.

"You'll go to your _son_ , Zabini."

"You'll go to your _death_ , Malfoy," Blaise protested.

"Not today."

Belikov stood beside Blaise. "No, not today," agreed the Professor. "Good luck, young man. Bring Miss Granger back safely."

Another nod from Draco, and then he was gone.

* * *

 _Five_ zombies so far.

Before the hatch closed for second time, another creature had painstakingly dragged itself to freedom by pulling what was left of its torso along the grated floor. It was still wearing most of its kindergarten uniform—a blue and green pinafore dress. The eyes were gone—scratched out, from the looks of things, but it had persevered, following the vibrations in the ground and the smell of prey, making its way ever so slowly to where Hermione lay trapped under an enormous, former policeman. This particular creature was easily three time her size and stunk to high heaven due to the large quantity of putrefying fat it carried. Hermione had already bashed its head in, but unfortunately, the thing had fallen on top of her and no amount of wriggling, even using the vast quantity of slimy fluid coming off the creature as a lubricant, was helping. Padma was busy some distance away, swinging an axe at two snarling creatures, one of whom was so desperate to feed it had chewed off its own tongue from excitement.

"Hermione!" Padma called out.

"I'm fine!" She turned her head to track the location of the tiny, crawling zombie. It was still a few meters away, but gaining ground. That was the thing about the zombies—their utter commitment to pursuing prey. Humans got tired; physical and emotional burdens eventually taking a toll. Not so zombies. Provided with a suitable incentive, your average zombie would continue to pursue, to try to break through a barricade, climb, reach, _search_. It would keep going, relentless and unburdened by fatigue, hunger or pain, for days on end, until tendons snapped and muscles wasted away. And even then it would still try to get to you, stopping only when the brain ceased to function.

Padma's axe struck one of the other attacking zombies across the forehead, which promptly flipped open like the top of a boiled egg. The creature's milky eyes rolled back into its head as it keeled over…

_Six._

…into its companion, tripping it. Padma raised her arms up high and brought her axe down on an angle, decapitating the other creature. The head rolled away, pausing centimetres away from Hermione's face. It had once been a young woman. When she died, she'd been wearing enamel earrings in the shape of tiny, red chilies.

_Seven._

It took both of them to simultaneously push and pull the large corpse off Hermione.

"Are you OK?" Padma asked. She was doubled over from fatigue, one hand resting on her thigh.

Hermione pushed hair off her wet face, grimacing at the strain in her shoulders and neck from attempting to lift the creature. And she was sweltering in the yellow jumpsuit. "So far."

Padma was surveying the debris over the floor. "It's getting messy. I think you should put your boots back on."

"They're too big," Hermione said.

"If you cut your feet on this metal and end up stepping in some of these remains…"

Part of Hermione wanted to argue that this really ought not to be a pressing concern for them. It was the same part that kept intruding into her survivalist mentality to tell her that death was imminent and that if there was even some small chance of fighting for long enough to get Padma out, they should take it. This meant not bothering about things like, well, footwear. But you couldn't tell Padma that. She'd just get cross.

She was eyeing Hermione beadily, a canny look in her dark eyes. "You will put those boots back on, Hermione Granger," said the axe-wielding, Padma.

Hermione pulled on the boots. "I don't know how long we can keep this up."

"Until we can't, I expect."

"We mustn't think like that."

"Why not?" Padma asked. "They said only _one person_ leaves here alive."

"Yes. No…wait, what are you getting at?"

"The same thing you're thinking about, I'll wager!" Padma shot back, angrily.

"Look, one of us is a _doctor_. One of us knows and is trusted by all the Magical captives on this ship and has been caring for them over the past few weeks. It's a simple decision, really."

"Simple, is it? Enlighten me," said Padma, with a sharp iciness that was reminiscent of Malfoy.

"We need you! I've done my part. Malfoy has Re-Gen and the last stages of the cure. We're talking about long-term survival here. Doctors are not expendable."

Padma grabbed her around the shoulders. "Hermione, listen to me. We can't trust anything these people tell us! They're mental! Who's to say they're even going to keep their word and let either one of us out of here when—watch it, behind you!"

The crawling zombie had reached them. Hermione raised her right foot and brought it down hard over the creature's tiny head. The skull shattered, shards of bone slicing into the brain. It expired with an almost dainty sigh.

_Seven and a half._

"I guess the boots came in handy after all," said Hermione, listlessly.

The buzzer sounded and the hatch reopened.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set as Draco watched the transport vessel putter closer to the home ship, its pilot oblivious to the recent change in management. Though there were several ways to disembark, Draco chose an exit that comprised a hatch and a small extendable a jetty that unfolded, floating upon the water. It faced the open sea, away from prying eyes from other vessels and thanks to the sheer size of Amarov's cruise liner, was currently bathed in shadow.

"Ahoy!" called out the pilot, in Russian, who then started to complain about the unusual disembarkation point causing his boat to expend more precious fuel by travelling all the way _around_ the ship.

Draco stepped on board, placing Blaise's heavily-laden backpack on the deck, while simultaneously aiming his handgun at the pilot.

Unlike Amarov's guards, this man was not paid nearly enough to bother putting up much of a fight. He held up his hands. "I don't want any trouble."

"I have it on good authority that trouble has no issue with you either, friend," said Draco, as he checked the man's clothing for concealed weapons. All he found was a tobacco pouch and pipe. "I just need your boat."

The man gaped, goldfish-like. "What about me?"

Draco stood to the side, extending his other arm towards the jetty. "Welcome to the home ship."

* * *

Impossibly, the Morning Star smelled far worse than Draco remembered.

The stench of rot hung heavy in the air, owing to the poor ventilation system and the fact that a game was currently in progress in the Pit. The corridors were mostly deserted and barely lit, which was fortunate because there was no carpet to muffle his footsteps or soft furnishings to mitigate the sound of gunfire. At the idea was to _avoid_ firing a gun at this very early stage.

Most of the people he encountered were workers and were easily evaded by ducking into the shadows and waiting for them to pass. The first pair of armed guards he came across were standing at the foot of the stairs that led to the prisoners' hold. He crouched down low behind a wall, and called out for help, feebly.

The two guards were instantly alert. They drew their weapons and came to investigate. The first guard met with a knife to the throat, but this allowed enough time for his colleague to raise his weapon. Draco kicked the man's legs out from beneath him, but was unable to reach the guard's gun in time. They fought for it, wrestling on the ground for a minute before Draco settled for kicking the weapon with his foot. It spun away towards the stairwell and clattered down the steps. The guard leapt to his feet with impressive agility, reassessing the situation. When it became apparent that Draco was not intending to use any firearms of his own, the guard was no longer daunted by the loss of his primary weapon.

He slipped a butterfly knife out of his pocket, flicked it back and forth until it was a hissing silver blur in the air, and then grinned maniacally at Draco. It seemed that the man wasn't going to follow through with—ah, no wait, _there_ it was—a cocky, beckoning gesture.

"Brilliant," Draco said, with a sigh. He tightened his grip on his plastic-handled bread knife and advanced.

* * *

 _Eight, nine, ten_.

They found it useful to wait just outside the hatch and dispatch the emerging zombies before the creatures had a chance to enter the brightly-lit arena.

"They're piling up," Padma said, after the hatch closed again.

With a grunt, Hermione extricated her machete from the skull of a fallen creature, causing brain matter to slop from the gaping wound. "Good. With any luck, they'll form a temporary obstacle for the others."

Honoria and Renauld watched on from the viewing gallery. "Clever," Renauld remarked.

"Did you expect anything less from these two?" Honoria said. "Open the hatch again. For longer, this time. I'd like our more _special_ specimens to start making their way out."


	34. Freedom: Part 2

"Thank God! You're on the games ship now?" It was Belikov who answered over the radio when Draco checked in.

"What's wrong?" This time it was Zabini's voice. "You don't sound good." Trust Blaise to notice.

"A slight case of stabbing, but nothing fatal." Draco turned the volume down and let the two men rant at him over the radio, while he bound the wound in his bicep with black electrical tape. The entire left side of his jumper was soaked in blood. The shudder in his voice was unavoidable, but adrenaline was more than enough to keep him going.

"Marina and her men are on board. We've made the broadcast to the fleet. Messages have been coming through non-stop since. Its chaos," Zabini informed.

"I noticed."

As soon as the fleet-announcement had been made, the workers on the Morning Star had been scrambling to get to transport vessels, eager to return to their families on the other ships. There was no need to even hide at this point. Draco had jogged through the corridors, occasionally (and painfully) bumping into someone. They stared, but no one had been inclined to stop him or even question him.

His wound now bound, Draco got to his feet. He put his handgun away, taking hold of a semi-automatic assault rifle instead. He repositioned the sling and checked that the safety was off. "I'm heading to the cargo hold now."

"Look, it's not too late to come back—"

Draco muted the radio.

There was only a single, young guard standing at the entrance to the cargo hold. He was shouting into his walkie talkie in French. Draco recognised the voice that responded—it was Renauld. The Fatman was in the process of promising the guard a 400% increase in his rations if he remained at his post. The foolish young man was holding out for more.

The prisoners saw Draco before the guard did. They all stood beyond metal fencing that had been welded into the ground. There was a narrow, gate, heavily padlocked. The time for skulking and silence was over. Draco strode up to the guard, rifle aloft. The young man was sweating so profusely, it looked like he'd been caught in a downpour.

"Stop!" he ordered. "Stop or I will—"

Draco suffered no such hesitation. He shot the lad in the forehead. "Shoot," he finished.

The guard fell over. Draco unclipped a comically enormous ring of keys from the guard's belt and opened the gates to the cargo hold. The prisoners remained inside, however, uncertainty etched into their expressions. One person eventually emerged from the crowd, the nominated spokesperson. Draco recognised her instantly, even though she was a walking skeleton. It was Rosmerta, former landlady of The Three Broomsticks.

"I'm Draco Malfoy."

Despite her emaciated appearance, she still had her wits about her. "Oh yes, I can see that. Though, for a moment I thought it was your father come to pay us a visit," she told him, with a tremulous smile. "We saw the other guards abandoning their posts. You're going to tell us this all _your_ doing?"

Draco nodded. "We're taking over the fleet, Madam."

"Who is we? You are but one person, a Death Eater and rumoured to be sequestered quite comfortably on Amarov's own vessel."

"There is one other vessel aiding us. We have neutralised the explosives that have been holding many of the Muggles on this fleet hostage, and we've already taken Amarov's ship."

Despite the mass exodus of staff from the ship, the dead guard and the open gate, Rosmerta remained sceptical. Draco could not fault her. He took out his walkie talkie.

"Zabini, are you there? Send the Cassiopeia now."

Blaise's response was almost instantaneous. "What's happening, Malfoy?"

"I'm in the hold, but I need you to reassure Madam Rosmerta that I am not part of some warped game of Amarov's." Draco handed Rosmerta the walkie talkie.

"Rosmerta, this is Blaise Zabini. Listen to Malfoy. It is as he says."

Upon hearing his voice, Rosmerta raised a trembling hand to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears. "Blaise! You are well?" she spoke into the walkie talkie. "We assumed the worst when they took you."

"I'm fine."

"And Henry?"

"We are both safe. Please assist Malfoy if you can. The success of our mission may very well depend on it."

She handed the walkie talkie back to Draco, her uncertainty now replaced with resolve. "What do you need from us?"

Draco was already emptying out his backpack, laying out guns and ammunition on the ground. "I have brought Muggle weapons and I should very much like for you and your people to defend yourselves with them."

Several prisoners came forward—men, mostly. The expressions on their faces ranged from fear to rage. The more confident among them picked up the weapons.

"Get everyone above deck quickly. Shoot anything that stands in your way. When it's safe, the Cassiopeia will come for you. All of you."

He made to leave, but Rosmerta caught his arm. She looked pained. "They took Padma Patil several hours ago. The guards said a Game has started in the Pit."

"I know."

She hesitated, but then continued. "I realise she is just one among many to be saved, but Padma has done a great deal for us in these past weeks. Mr Zabini and his wife looked after us as best he could, but then they were gone. We were given Padma and we've been so very grateful to have her. She's saved many lives—"

"I'm going to help her, Rosmerta."

She hugged him, awkwardly. "Thank you."

By the time Draco exited through the open gate, about a third of the most able-bodied prisoners were already filing out, making their way to the stairs that would take them to the deck. Draco walked to the opposite end of the hold, where the containment cells were located.

Felix Wallen was waiting.

* * *

"Oh dear. Change of plan, I think."

"Yes," Hermione agreed, joining Padma at the opposite end of the Pit, moving away from the hatch. _Eleven_ and _twelve_ had been run of the mill—badly decayed, relentless, but slow. The next two that came out were markedly different. They moved more quickly and with what looked (worryingly) like purpose. Unlike the previous creatures, who emerged stumbling and vulnerable from containment, these darted out into the arena, evading the initial attack from Hermione and Padma. Granted, they'd been expecting much slower specimens.

The women stood together, weapons in hand, inching along the walls of the arena, observing and observed, in turn. The creatures also stood close together, which was unusual zombie behaviour. One had been female, still clad in a nightie that had probably once been white. It was stained a rusty brown, now. The other was young—a teenager before his demise. He was big and in such excellent shape, he might have passed off as freshly deceased. They were preternaturally still, which was incredibly eerie, eyes keenly focussed on Padma and Hermione in way that a normal zombie could never have managed.

"What are they doing?" Padma whispered. "They're not attacking."

"They're watching," Hermione concluded, grimly.

"Wizarding zombies?"

"Must be."

"Hermione, the gate _isn't_ closing…"

True enough, it was still open. Three more creatures came lumbering through, slow and lurching, before the hatch finally closed.

"Merlin, what do we do?"

Hermione walked up to one of the slower creatures, ducked under its grasping arms and rammed the business end of her machete up into its chin. The blade existed through the top of its head.

_Thirteen._

"Stay alive."

* * *

He had the keys to the cell, but thought Wallen might derive some satisfaction from seeing the locks obliterated from gunfire.

Wallen had been in bad shape, and frequently. It was both a blessing and a curse that his Lycanthropy allowed quick recovery from the assaults inflicted upon him (only to receive yet more abuse). Draco saw the worst of the scars that were taking some time to fade. They'd cut him, belted him, burnt him. The unusual way that the scars seemed to wrap around his limbs likely meant that much of the torture had been inflicted while he'd been in werewolf form. There was some small mercy in that, Draco supposed. Wallen was clad in nothing more than filthy rags. There was no cot, no chair, not even a blanket. Food had been thrown into the cell, much like one might feed a caged animal. Outside the cell, there was evidence of the implements used in his ill-treatment; a cattle prod, lengths of rope and chain, some of which was blood stained. All that rare expertise, all that utility and Amarov thought to use Wallen as nothing more than a sideshow amusement.

A white-fisted Draco shoved open the gate with more force than was necessary. "Can you walk?"

"I could fly," breathed Wallen, looking at his esrtwhile colleague with unadulterated amazement. "Are you real?"

Draco pulled out a revolver. After reloading and cocking it, he slapped it into Wallen's hands. "As real as this is." The plan to steal the fleet from under Amarov's nose was quickly relayed, as was the high probability that Hermione and Padma were currently in the Pit.

"So he's still alive, then. More's the pity," muttered Wallen. "You'll go and get the girls now?"

"Granger would have your hide if she heard you referring to them as 'the girls'."

Wallen sobered. "Hermione Granger can have my hide and anything else she wants. I know what she did for me and Vadim Belikov, in the Pit. It was…it was _beyond_ courageous."

"That woman has rather a knack for reckless courage. Now, I've told the prisoners to make their way above-deck. The Cassiopeia's crew will transfer everyone across shortly. Can you see that they make it there safely? Amarov's remaining men may still prove to be a problem. Likewise the man himself."

"Of course."

"Be careful," said Draco. He ignored the corridor leading to the stairs and to the other levels of the ship, but instead ran further down to the back of the hold, where Padma had once taken him.

"Malfoy, wait!" Wallen called out. "If you're going to the Pit, that's not how you get to the arena!"

Draco responded without looking back. "I'm going to the Pit, but I'm not getting there through the arena."

* * *

_Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen._

Padma was on the ground, panting. Number Sixteen lay beside her, decapitated, but that last encounter had cost her dearly. Her reserves were spent. Padma was so exhausted, she was weeping.

"Padma!" Hermione called out, though her throat was hoarse from shouting. The name barely came out. She had managed to stab one of the wizarding zombies (the female) in the chest with the metal pipe, but all that did was slow it down. It kept coming back, snarling and clawing ferociously at the protruding metal bar lodged in its sternum. And each time Hermione turned her attention to it, the other wizarding zombie, the large male, attacked simultaneously. It came at her from the side, attempting to grab at her long hair or at her jumpsuit.

It would be suicide to turn her back to either of them, so Hermione allowed herself to be cornered, swinging her machete wildly every time one of the creatures approached. They had the sense to stay just out of reach, unlike normal zombies that would walk into fire if they thought you were on the other side of it. The muscles in her arms were in agony. It was getting harder to even maintain a grip over the handle, so much strength had been depleted.

"Hermione…" Padma said. She pushed herself up to her feet.

"Padma, _don't_ move! They're not going for you!"

The large male stepped forward, almost deliberately _into_ the swing of Hermione's machete. It was a weak swing, barely connecting with the creature's thick torso. As had consistently been the case, the blade was momentarily stuck. Hermione pulled with all the strength she could muster. The cheap blade scraped along the creature's rib bones, unexpectedly shattering, pieces careening off into different parts of the arena, leaving Hermione holding a useless handle.

She dropped it.

Padma called her name again. Hermione's mind may have still been willing, but her body was done. Dying was something else she could do, though. And in their current predicament, there was a chance that it could save Padma.

Hermione closed her eyes. She felt one of the creatures violently pull her hair back, exposing her throat. Clawing hands tore at her jumpsuit, frustrated at this thick barrier to her flesh. They would break through soon enough, though, and tear her apart.

But this did not happen. The scrabbling hands left her and she fell to her side. Through sweat, tears and confusion, she saw that Padma had garnered the zombies' complete attention. This had been achieved by cutting a long, deep slice into her arm, using one of the broken shards from Hermione's machete blade. She stood beside the hatch, as far away from Hermione as possible, and dripped a steady line of blood onto the floor.

"No," Hermione croaked. "No, no, no…"

Padma looked at her. "Stay alive," she didn't speak the words, merely mouthed them. And then the two zombies were upon her, and Padma had no protective clothing to thwart their savagery.

Hermione _felt_ Padma's screams. She felt each cry of agony sear its way through her own nerve endings. As Hermione raised herself to her knees; the sense of desolation, shock and helplessness was so acute, it she felt like she was standing outside her body, watching these horrors unfold to other people.

* * *

This time around, it was much easier making his way through the ventilation ducts without having to cart around a dead Igor plus his ridiculously huge, gold watch. The pain in his injured arm was intense, but manageable. So far, there had been no gunfire coming from the upper decks, which was tremendously good news. It meant that none of the prisoners had felt compelled to use their weapons yet. At this point, only the most well remunerated staff would remain loyal to Amarov. Anyone with family was hurrying to be with them and anyone who had previously remained in the fleet due to threats and coercion was now a potential ally. Draco did not doubt that these individuals numbered in the hundreds.

He reached the section of the ducts located directly above the Dead Zone, not needing the flashlight he was using to tell him that he had arrived at his destination. The sounds and smell was quite enough of a landmark. The compartment creaked ominously as it had done before, but this time it only had to support his weight, instead of the combined weight of him, Padma _and_ the deceased Igor. Not surprisingly, the contained zombies were making an ear-splitting amount of noise. No doubt the intermittent opening and closing of the Pit hatch was whipping them up into a frenzy.

As he carefully approached the collapsed section of the ducts, he reached into his backpack and took out the remaining Molotov Cocktails. This had always been their additional purpose. Without knowing how many guards were stationed at the arena, walking into the stands and opening fire had a high chance of failure. Rather, the wiser way to assist Hermione and Padma was to eradicate their current threat—the zombies.

Of course there was the possibility that he was already too late…but entertaining such thoughts would do no one any good, particularly if Hermione and Padma were very much alive and needed every bit of help he could provide them.

The slope in the collapsed duct compartment made it slippery, dangerous work, but he braced his back and feet against the compartment walls and used that as an anchor. He felt the wound in his arm opening arm, causing fresh blood to surge down his arm. Several meters below him, the zombies closest to the ducts snarled, sensing him, but unable to see him. The familiar buzzer in the arena sounded just as Draco threw down the Molotov Cocktails. At once, nearly the entire containment area was engulfed in flames. The creatures stumbled into one another, assisting the spread of the fire. The noises changed, moans turned to high-pitched whining and there were sickly, wet, sizzling and popping sounds as the intense heat exploded several specimens altogether.

The buzzer stopped and the hatch door opened.

In the distance, in an arena that was littered with human remains, Draco saw Hermione. She was on her knees, clad in a thick, yellow jumpsuit. Her face and long hair were wet and covered in grime. She watched on with a dispassionate, utterly defeated expression as two, disoriented, burning specimens stumbled out of the containment hold and into the arena.

The hatch closed again moments later.

* * *

The buzzer buzzed, this time sounding like it was a long way off. Hermione could not bring herself to care. There was nothing left in her; nothing that felt recognisably human. The hatch opened and she could only watch on, feeling numb to her very core, as what appeared to be _flaming zombies_ , staggered into the arena.

A memory dislodged itself from the dark, swirling vortex in her head. It was from Welwyn Hospital, from when the Cowboy had told them never to set zombies alight.

 _"It's going to be like chasing down burning piñatas,"_ he'd warned.

 _"What's a piñata?"_ Honoria had asked and Hermione had explained.

It seemed the late Agent Richards had been wrong. Burning zombies were incapacitated zombies. The two that entered the arena made it only several steps before dropping to the ground, shrieking and twitching as they burned. Hermione would not have survived them, otherwise.

The hatch closed, cutting off the Pit from what looked like a maelstrom of fire inside the zombie containment area. The heat was so intense, it felt like it was cooking the skin of her face. Was the whole world burning, she wondered. Alarms sounded, sprinkler systems activated over the arena. The hatch would not be opening again, not for her or anyone else.

Hermione sat down in a cross-legged position, on the wet grating, vaguely aware that someone else had entered the Pit. She sat there, staring at her hands, watching the grime and blood wash away from them. There wasn't enough water in the entire world to wash it all away, she thought.

Alexander Amarov fired several shots into the zombies that were still feeding on Padma, and two more into the twitching, steaming, burnt creatures on the ground, before walking across the Pit to Hermione.

He grabbing her and lifted her to her feet. "Are you bitten?" he demanded, shaking her lightly.

She stared at him.

"Answer me! Are you hurt?"

The water had soaked through his shirt, plastering it to this skin. She could make out the outline of the biofeedback device on his chest. "You did this," she whispered, raising her eyes to his. "All of this."

He set her down, staring at her with what she registered to be relief and concern. Laughable, but there it was. The man cared about her, in his own twisted way.

"This is not my doing. I have lost my ship and most of the fleet. It appears some of us have been rather _busy_ while I've been away."

There was much she wanted to say, but she could not summon the vocabulary. All she could do was stare at the gun in his hand. He noticed this.

"You don't believe me?" he asked her, gently. Something powerful shifted behind his dark blue gaze. "You think I would put you in here to die like this?"

A whimper caught their attention. Hermione didn't have to look to know that it was Padma. She bit her lip, trying to rein in the scream she feared would never end if she let it out.

"I could help her…if _you_ want me to," Amarov said.

It was always about power and leverage with people like him. And Malfoy, even. If Padma could be saved, then she should be. What she should _never_ be, was a tool for bargaining.

Amarov's attention was wholly occupied on Hermione. He cursed, before taking her hand and wrapping it around his gun. He placed the barrel against his chest, at his heart.

"Trust me," he whispered.

All she had to do was pull the trigger. It was so very simple. Kill the monster who hurt the people she loved, who brought such pain and misery to a world that was already caught in a waking nightmare. The biofeedback device blinked rapidly. The red button flashing at a far quicker pace than she had ever seen before. He was afraid. Why, though? He knew she would not blow up thousands of innocent people just to satisfy her need to see him suffer.

She lowered the gun, but did not relinquish it. Instead, she shuffled over to where Padma lay, in between the two inert creatures that were still clutching her torn flesh in their hands. Padma could not speak. What had happened to her was unspeakable. There was no putting her back together, not with Re-Gen and not even with magic.

 _"Once more, Granger,"_ Malfoy had once said to her, when she'd failed to euthanize Jason Lam. _"With feeling."_

Hermione forced herself to meet Padma's stricken, pleading gaze. She placed the gun to her friend's temple and pulled the trigger. It had to be the loudest gunshot she had ever heard. Still in a crouched position, Hermione picked up the broken machete blade Padma had used to cut her own arm, and slipped it inside one of her Wellingtons. It nestled in a folded cuff of her jumpsuit leg. And then, with some effort, she stood, handed the gun back to Amarov and allowed herself to be taken away from the arena.


	35. Strategy

Hermione was taken several floors up. Three? Or was it four? Harry, with his DMLE sensibilities was always reminding her to take note of exactly these kinds of details. Unfortunately, much of the external world was a blur at the moment. She was single-minded in her task, however. All her energies were focussed on the plan she would attempt to execute.

She was shown to the bathroom in Louis Renauld's rooms on the games ship, and told to wash. A nervous, pacing Dr Prestin waited beyond the door, under orders from Amarov to examine her once she was clean. Hermione stood just outside the shower stall, watching the hot water fog up the glass. The mirror above the sink caught her eye. Just as she had done mere hours ago, she stared at her reflection—her face and hair smeared with blood and grime, bloodshot eyes, tear streaks on her cheeks that cut clear paths through the muck.

The vanity was laden with more aftershaves than her father likely owned in his entire life. There was soap that looked handmade and expensive. There was a cut crystal tumbler with about a centimetre of scotch still left at the bottom. Hermione picked up the tumbler, opened her hand and dropped it into the sink. It shattered. The sound seemed muffled. Nothing was sharp or clear anymore. Her senses were muted. She knew it was her traumatised mind attempting to give her some respite from feeling much of anything. But right now she really needed to be whole and present.

The door opened. Prestin bustled in, alarmed by the sound of breaking glass. He pulled Hermione away from the sink, grabbed her hands and examined them. "What did you do?" Amarov's physician demanded. "He'll have my head if you did anything!"

"I was trying to move a glass to use the sink and it fell," she replied, amazed at how normal and simultaneously alien her own voice sounded to her.

He used a face towel to sweep the broken pieces into a waste receptacle, tut-tutting the whole time. Prestin then peered closely at her. What he saw must have been reassuring because all he said was, "Hurry up," before shutting her in the bathroom once more, taking the broken glass with him.

Hermione sat on the toilet seat, ignoring a symphony of aches and pains over her body. Carefully, she pulled off one Wellington boot, and then the other. The hidden shard from the broken machete blade fell out, still stained with Padma's blood. It dropping soundlessly onto the rug. She picked it up, wadded half a roll of toilet around it and slipped it into the pocket of a purple dressing gown that hung on the back of the door. And then she unzipped the yellow jumpsuit, stepped out of it and stood under the running water.

Twenty minutes later, Hermione made a token effort to dry her hair, put on the enormous dressing gown and opened the door. Prestin had been sitting on the edge of the bed, but snapped to attention when she appeared.

"Would you like something to eat?" he asked.

She shook her head. He handed her a bottle of water.

"Drink it."

She drank.

"Drop the robe," he ordered.

She did as told. He proceeded to examine her with thin, cold hands, checking her limbs, lifting up her long wet hair to look for hidden abrasions, cuts and wounds, signs that she may have been infected. Her body was a map of bruises, but there were no lacerations. He seemed satisfied, but still insisted on taking blood for routine testing.

"Alexander wanted you presented as soon as possible," he muttered. "He's waiting in the dining room."

Wordlessly, Hermione bent to retrieve the dressing gown.

"There are clothes for you," Prestin pointed out.

Hermione ignored him. She slipped on the robe. It was voluminous, considering it belonged to Renauld, so Hermione folded the edges of the robe inwards first, shortening its width, before rolling up the sleeves and then belting it tightly. However, she left a long, narrow line of exposed skin along her décolletage.

Prestin opened the door to the adjoining room to where Amarov was standing at a table, conferring with two guards over a map. All three looked up at her when she appeared. Amarov was wearing borrowed garments seeing as he had no access to his former wardrobe. Rather than making him seem more accessible, the grey knit jumper and jeans looked out of place on him, given that Hermione had only ever seen him in suits. His black hair was still damp from his encounter with the arena's sprinkler systems.

"Well?" Amarov asked Prestin.

"She's dehydrated and exhausted. There is probably some tendon damage and torn muscle, but she should be fine in time."

"Thank you, Prestin. Leave us. The men have their orders. I believe Renauld has some passable _Dom Pérignon_ on ice. Send him in with it."

The two guards and the physician left the room, shutting the door behind them. There was silence, save for the hum of reversible air-conditioning—a limited luxury on the Morning Star. They were alone.

Amarov stared at her, his eyes dipping momentarily to the low neckline of the dressing gown. "Is there anything you _cannot_ do?" he asked. "You have magic, you are a scientist, a scholar, a survivor, you protect and you fight."

"I can't ride a broomstick," she admitted. It was the truth. She inclined her head towards the map. "What are you planning?"

"Quite simply, I'm going to cut my losses and leave," he answered. "We'll set off within the hour. All the prisoners are off this ship, thanks to the rebels. I may have lost the fleet and my laboratories, but at least we live to fight another day."

"How—"she began and then swallowed, blinking rapidly to convey confusion that did not need to be manufactured. "How can you leave the fleet without triggering the proximity detonators on your biofeedback device?"

"Ah," said Amarov, who seemed suddenly hesitant. He plucked at an invisible piece of lint from his lap, before perching on the edge of the dining table. "While in the Pit, you would have missed the announcement your rebel friends made, using the fleet-wide channel."

"They're not my 'rebel friends'," she spat, a tremor in her voice. "I had no knowledge and continue to have no knowledge regarding what is happening here. I have been left behind, it seems."

"There are no bombs," Amarov said, very simply. "They never existed."

Hermione counted to ten before speaking, digging her fingernails into the flesh of her palms in order to interrupt the shock and incredulity she was experiencing. " _What_?"

"When I first put the fleet together, it was madness. Utter chaos. The people were fighting, panicked, assaulting each other over the most basic staples. I needed control...an incentive for order. The threat of the hidden explosives provided all that and more. It deterred attempts on my life."

The shard was _right there_. Right there in her pocket and Alexander Amarov had just told her he was as vulnerable as the rest of them. Hermione let the shock run through her, dissolving away some of the initial numbness, leaving a new, directed rage in its wake. When she next looked at him, she showed nothing more than amazement in her eyes. "Remarkable," she said. "It was all a bluff. And the device in your chest?"

"This?" Amarov said, tapping at the metal plate under his jumper. "Prestin's handiwork. It's surgically embedded and does indeed respond to my vital signs, but it's about as dangerous as a mobile phone."

"Who else knows?"

"Just Prestin, of course."

"What about Honoria?"

"She had no idea," Amarov said.

"Well, wherever she is, she probably knows now."

"It's likely," he agreed.

"So if we're giving up the fleet and your leaving won't blow everyone up, why haven't we left already?" Hermione asked.

" _We_? Are you one of us now?"

"Most of my people are dead. The cure is a pipe-dream because you've lost the lab. I was left behind in this alleged coup and I certainly do not want you to deposit me back on the mainland. It's clear Harry isn't going to come for me and I'd rather be as far away from London as possible when the bombs drop…" She sighed, wrapping her arms around herself. "I'm not useless, as you said. I can work. I can make a contribution." Her eyes met his. "I'll go with you, if you let me. But only if you allow me to be of use."

He was watching her carefully. "Why the sudden change of heart? I don't recall you feeling very charitable towards me before."

Hermione shot him an incredulous look. "Well, it seems you're not the homicidal maniac I once thought you were. Additionally, you do realise that one of your trusted lieutenants put me and my friend into a pit so she could watch us be eaten alive by zombies, because she was _jealous_ of me? Can you think of any other reasons why I felt it wasn't safe to engage with you?"

He sobered. "Of the many things that should not have happened today, that remains top on the list."

"Losing me would be worse than losing the fleet?"

Amarov blinked, seemingly caught off guard by the question.

Her face reddened. "I'm sorry. That was presumptuous of me."

He cleared his throat. "No, it's quite alright. I suppose given the times we live in, it pays to be direct. We may not always have the chance to say all that we want to say."

She smiled a sad smile. "Yes."

The door opened and the guards shoved a purple-faced Louis Renauld into the room, carrying a bottle of champagne and crystal flutes.

"Three glasses," Amarov noted, with a snort. He turned to Hermione. "Now _this_ , my dear, is presumptuous."

Renauld set the bottle on the table, with hands that were shaking so badly he nearly dropped one of the glasses. "Would you…did you want me to uncork it?"

"Yes, please do."

The tension in the room was thick and bitter. Renauld managed to fill all three glasses without spilling a drop. When it was done, he handed a glass each to Amarov and Hermione and then stood away from the table.

"Pick up your glass," Amarov said. The words were innocuous, but the tone had Renauld's purple face draining of colour. "What shall we toast to?"

"To revolution," Hermione suggested.

Amarov raised an eyebrow. "Careful, my dear."

She was starring daggers at Renauld. "That which survives a cleansing is often hardier and stronger than what came before."

"Better," Amarov said. "To what comes after."

They toasted, they drank, though Hermione had no doubt that Renauld was so terrified he would have choked on the champagne if he attempted to swallow any of it.

Amarov drained his glass and set it down. "I have a question for you, Louis. I think you know what it is."

Renauld could no longer contain his bubbling panic. His already pronounced accent grew twice as thick. "It wasn't my idea! It was Honoria! She said the witch was poisoning your mind, corrupting you!"

"Even if that is true, why not come to me?"

"We didn't think you would listen to reason! After what happened when Vadim was put in the Pit. Alexander, your word is supposed to be law, but we all saw what she had the power to do!"

"And what power is that, Louis?"

Renauld swallowed. "To trick you."

"I see," said Amarov. He walked over to a jacket hanging over a dining chair and retrieved a handgun from inside a pocket. "Hermione, tell me. Are you tricking me?"

Hermione looked him directly in the eye. "No. I'm told I'm _dreadful_ at deceit, if that helps? After Hogwarts, I was assessed by the DMLE alongside Harry Potter. We both contemplated signing up as Aurors. Harry went brilliantly of course, but they said I didn't have the aptitude for undercover work."

"There you have it, Renauld," Amarov said, throwing his hands up. "She doesn't have the aptitude."

Renauld mopped at the sweat that was pouring down his face. His bulging eyes locked on the handgun. "Forgive me…I must have been, that is, Honoria must have been mistaken. I should never have allowed myself to be persuaded."

"Do you know where Honoria is?" Amarov asked. He turned to Hermione, belatedly answering her earlier question. "She is the reason we have not separated from the fleet yet. If she's on this ship or any other in the fleet, I will have her."

It was evident that Renauld very much wished he did know. He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Amarov waved the gun in Hermione's direction. "No matter. You know, I understand that you only betrayed me because you were concerned for my welfare. I suppose there is one way to tell if Miss Granger is going to be a productive and loyal member of this crew." He walked up to Hermione and for the second time that day, put a gun in her hands. "Hermione, I want you to shoot Renauld. I understand if—"

Both men had not been expecting the shot, at least not immediately. Hermione hit Renauld in the middle of his forehead. He was dead before his large body reached the ground. The door immediately opened. The same two guards who were there minutes earlier entered, looking unsurprised to find Renauld dead. They dragged the body away.

Hermione felt Amarov gently take the gun from her hand. "I'm sorry about Dr Patil."

A tear slid down her face. "Thank you."

"I admit, that whole charade with Renauld wasn't only for your benefit, but did it make you feel any better at all?"

"Some, but find me Honoria Cloot and I'll feel much improved."

He laughed, his hand coming to stroke a knuckle down her cheek, catching the tear. "I honestly don't know what to make of you. You are the most intriguing woman I have ever met."

She leaned into his hand, and when he did not rebuff her, placed her face against his chest, her cheek brushing against the biofeedback panel. "My God, I'm so tired I can't even think…"

"Of course. Rest. We'll set off soon. It's been a hell of a day for all of us. I'll wake you once we're back in international waters."

Hermione pulled away, heading towards the bedroom. She climbed onto Renauld's bed, pulled the covers open and crawled in.

Amarov stood at the foot of the bed, his blue eyes contemplative. "I was going to put you in your own room. These are my new quarters."

Looking only slightly uncertain, Hermione lifted the covers. "I hate your guts, but I don't want to be alone right now."

He didn't move.

Hermione sighed. "Does that makes me weak?"

"You're not weak," Amarov said. And then he kicked off his shoes, put his gun on the bedside table closest to him and climbed into bed with her. Hermione settled her body alongside his, placing her face against his chest once more. She noted the immediate rise in the flashing rate on his biofeedback panel.

"Alexander?"

"Yes?"

"Be honest, aren't you just a little bit glad the prisoners were set free?"

He appeared to be considering the question. "That situation was untenable in the long term, I suppose. And let's just say I think I am developing a new…appreciation for the magical world." His hand stroked her hair. "Perhaps it's as Honoria and Louis feared."

"Oh? Do you really think I'm tricking you?"

He brushed his lips across the top of her head. "Not tricking. Bewitching."

* * *

Anatoli shut the Morning Star's bridge doors and proceeded to walk down to the floor below, where Dr Prestin's medical station and Renauld's quarters was located. He was accosted as he passed the deserted mess hall. Or rather, as much as a person of his size could reasonably be accosted. When Anatoli saw whom it was that had grabbed him, he put his gun away.

"Will they notice you're gone?" Draco Malfoy asked him, in Russian.

"No," Anatoli responded. "We have time."

Malfoy retreated further into the darkness of the mess hall kitchens, dropping two rifles on the counter with less care than he would have normally taken. Anatoli followed him inside. It was very apparent that Malfoy was in a bad way. His wet hair was slicked back and soot stained, the left sleeve of his jumper was gone, ripped away. He had attempted to bind a wound with black, electrical tape, but the adhesive wasn't sticky any more. Some sections of the tape looked warped and melted. The scorches on Malfoy's trousers and harness flaps indicated recent, close proximity to fire.

Anatoli knew he was looking at the person responsible for starting the blaze in the zombie cells, four floors below. There was a gash showing through a gaping hole in Malfoy's jumper, on his left side. It was dripping blood at a concerning rate. A nasty cut above Malfoy's right eye had rendered that entire side of his face covered with dried blood. He was slightly hunched over, holding a Colt IAR to his midsection by his elbow, rather than using his hands. Anatoli knew that rifle. It had belonged to one of three guards patrolling the lower floors. Finally, Anatoli winced when he spotted Malfoy's hands. The gloves were burnt so badly, the leather had likely fused to the skin.

"Weezard—" Anatoli began, but was waylaid.

Malfoy ended up using his hands anyway, although it cost him. He grabbed Anatoli by his lapels and hauled him close. Anatoli could see the white lines of pain around his eyes, and the fury that bordered on desperation. After weeks of the cool, calm and very much in control scientist, this show of emotion was unnerving. "I've heard the other guards report that one of the women did not make it out of the Pit. _Tell me_."

Anatoli was very many bad things, as his wife liked to list, but cruel was not one of them. He assuaged the other man's fears immediately. "She's _fine_ …she's fine, my friend. She made it. Prestin has just finished examining her and your young lady has survived the Pit without any bites or other signs of infection."

Malfoy stepped back, looking disarmed and dazed. He pulled out a chair from one of the mess hall benches, spun it around, folded his arms across the backrest and dropped his forehead upon them. Anatoli looked away discreetly as Malfoy sucked in a shuddering breath.

"You did it, weezard," Anatoli said, not bothering to disguise his profound amazement. "You took the fleet from Alexander in just a few hours."

Malfoy looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. " _We_ did it."

"Vadim and Zabini, they are OK?"

He nodded.

"And the Cassiopeia's crew?" Anatoli asked.

"All fine."

It was Anatoli's turn to be relieved. "That is good to hear."

"Are you still with us?" Malfoy asked, very carefully. And this was followed by an extended, lead-heavy silence during which Anatoli was heartened to see Malfoy's left hand move ever so slightly towards the rifle.

"I always bet on the winning side," said Anatoli, just as carefully. "And I believe that's currently _your_ side."

"Then let's finish this. How many guards are left?"

"Including me? Sixteen. Renauld is dead. They put a bullet in him not ten minutes ago."

"Ah, that was the shot I heard."

Anatoli nodded. "But before we do anything more, let me look at your injuries."

"There's no need."

"If you'll forgive me, wizard, I am not about to storm the bridge with a man who can't hold his own cock to piss right now, let alone a gun! Let me see your hands."

Malfoy cursed in a language Anatoli was not familiar with, but relented. Anatoli whistled low. As he'd guessed, the leather had stuck. To remove the gloves would be to peel off skin. This was something to be attempted only with serious pain relief on hand.

Or _a lot_ of vodka.

"Wait here, weezard."

* * *

There was no bloody vodka to be found. It was a travesty on any ship crewed by Russians.

Anatoli returned moments later with a small kit of medical supplies. He sat in a chair and watched Draco rifle through the bag, pulling out bandages and several vials. With shaking hands, Malfoy plastered an adhesive bandage over the gash in his side. "There's no morphine..."

"Shall I go back and look?" Anatoli asked.

"No, let's not risk Prestin asking any questions if he sees you. There's some fentanyl. Even better." He pulled off a syringe cap with his teeth, loaded it with the drug and then plunged it into the muscle of his thigh.

"Is it working?" Anatoli asked.

Malfoy closed his eyes. "Give it a minute."

"You haven't asked me about the girl who died," Anatoli said, filling the silence. "She was your friend, yes?"

His eyes opened. "Yes. Her name was Padma."

Anatoli nodded. "I wasn't at the arena, but Renauld told me what happened."

"What happened is that I didn't reach them in time," Malfoy said. He got to his feet, went to retrieve the two additional rifles and began to load them.

"I don't see how you could have got there any sooner. The prisoners in the hold needed to be released. If not, Amarov would have used them as hostages even if you did manage to get to Granger first. The fire you lit saved her life, you know that? And before that, the two girls saved each other. Amarov arrived at the end, after they faced what even you and Zabini never had to."

The re-loading paused. "And what was that?"

"Eight rounds in the Pit."

Malfoy put the gun down on the table and stared at it for a moment. "Where is Honoria Cloot?"

"We don't know. My men and I have orders to find her if she's still on the Morning Star and bring her to Amarov."

"And Granger? Where exactly is he keeping her?"

"She's been with Alexander in Renauld's rooms since Prestin cleared her of the Infection," Anatoli confirmed. He turned in his chair to observe Malfoy opening and closing the kitchen cabinets.

He found a six-pack of juice boxes in one cupboard, tore two boxes free from the plastic wrap and said, in English, "Apple or tropical?"

It took Anatoli a moment to process the question. " _Yabloko_."

Malfoy tossed him the apple juice. Anatoli noted that he moved with greater fluidity now. The pain relief was taking effect and Anatoli was relieved to recognise the wizard he was more familiar with—strategic, acerbic and at times, downright sinister.

"Alexander asked the men to…he asked us to bring them…"

"Bring them _what_?"

"Champagne," Anatoli said, with a sigh.

Malfoy's eyebrows rose. "Champagne? What a civilised way to celebrate the demise of a dictatorship."

After draining his juice box, Malfoy crumpled it and tossed the empty carton into the sink. "Come on, Anatoli. Let's crash a party."

"We are outnumbered, you are wounded and none of our allies are on board. Do you have a plan?"

After a moment of thought, Malfoy apparently did.

"How much do your friends like you?"


	36. Alexander Amarov

Hermione's exhaustion had long since passed Fatigue, arriving at a previously undiscovered destination called Wakeful Delirium. Each blink felt like it was happening at half-speed. She regretted not accepting food from Prestin. Some sugar in her blood might make a crucial difference. It hadn't mattered earlier, when all she had to worry about was her own resolve, but now it certainly did. She had to think fast and _be_ fast.

"What's on your mind?" Amarov asked her, his voice sleepy. "You look troubled."

"Do you think about her?"

He knew to whom she was referring. "Every day."

"What was she like, your fiancée?"

Amarov considered the question. "The opposite of you, actually."

"Tall, blonde, good-looking?"

He smiled, caught her hand and kissed her wrist. "Dependent, spiteful, spoilt. But we got along very well. She understood me." He began running a finger across her collarbone, and then lower, tracing the parting in the robe.

"Did Honoria understand you?" Hermione asked, forcing herself not to flinch away.

"Yes, I believe she did, which is why she sensed blood in the water as soon as you came on board."

"How do you mean?"

Amarov began to undo the knot in the belt of her robe. "I like…unusual things. I enjoy being challenged, but only if it ends with my winning. Or with acquisition." He sat up, parting the edges of the robe until Hermione's body was fully exposed to him. His breathing began to pick up. "I don't like to lose."

He ran his palm over the skin of her belly, stopping just above the dark pink scar tissue of her gunshot wound; the same wound Amarov had caused and Draco had sewed up. "Pity about the ugly scar."

His right hand slid under her hair as he pressed her face to his, kissing her. This was very different to their last kiss. This kiss was a prelude to something serious. How odd that after three years without kissing anyone, with only a moody, on-again, off-again unworkable relationship with Ron, she'd been kissed three time in the last three months and all three occasions had been with 'the enemy'.

Amarov's kiss was not aggressive or angry like Draco's had been in the Hogwarts' library. This was designed to lull and convince. He was a salesman, after all. She felt his hand on one breast, and then the other, before it slid lower down her body.

It got difficult at this point—staying still, acting receptive, and resisting the urge to cocoon herself in all the sheets on the bed. His mouth left hers, running down her neck to where his hands had just been.

"You're beeping," she pointed out.

"I think we can do away with this thing now. It's been such a trial." He reached up a hand to punch in a code on the inverted number pad of his biofeedback device.

It turned off. Just like that. _So easy_. This was the lie that had held an entire fleet of people in a terrified thrall.

Presently, he sat up to pull his jumper over his head. Hermione slipped her arms out of her robe, but was careful to still remain lying on the garment.

"You are so beautiful," he told her. "Perhaps I haven't come away empty-handed today, after all."

And then he lay on top of her. Hermione glanced at the gun on the bedside table. It was close, but on the wrong side of the bed. She would have to roll over him and at this point, she was unwilling to provide any incentive for Amarov to find an opportunity to remove his trousers. Instead, she reached down with her right hand, finding the robe and dragging it upwards until the pocket was within reach. She slipped her hands into the pocket and gripped the machete blade tightly, using her thumb to drag down the toilet paper that was wadded around the tip of the blade, exposing it.

Timing was everything. And also _nothing_ , considering she was essentially about to be raped. Her panic was held in check by the flimsiest of threads. Any more of this and she was going to scream.

Amarov was kissing down her shoulder just as she tried to stab him in the side of his neck. The blade absolutely would have met its mark, had Amarov not been expecting it. He caught her wrist in a punishing grip, squeezing the bones in between his thumb and index finger. Hermione cried out, dropping the shard to the carpeted floor.

"Beautiful _and_ deadly, it seems," he smirked down at her. "Turns out I owe Honoria an apology."

" _Get off me_!"

"After I'm done."

She let the panic out, bucking, hitting, scratching, before he cuffed her in the side of her face. Pain exploded across her cheekbone. It _hurt_. The right side of her vision was rendered fuzzy for a moment.

"Don't look so distraught. I'm not a monster. You'll enjoy this. I assure you I've had no complaints before."

Hermione pulled her knee back to kick him, but he caught her ankle, ran his hands up her calf and flipped her, bodily, onto her stomach. She screamed. He straddled her, locking her arms behind her back and pushing her face down into the mattress until she couldn't breathe.

"There will be no fighting and no screaming, my dear. That would be counterproductive to our mutual enjoyment, wouldn't it?" Still holding her arms in place with one hand, he used his other hand to undo his belt buckle.

"I must confess I've never had a witch quite like you before. The others have all come along willingly when provided with suitable incentives. What about you, Hermione? Are you going to behave?" He lifted her face off the mattress by sharply pulling back on her hair. "Are you?"

Hermione's eyes were screwed shut. There were bed sheet creases over her face, the right side of which was already swelling up. " _Yes_ ," she winced.

"Excellent." He flipped her over again so that he was straddling her stomach this time. "Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you think I couldn't _guess_? I must say, the blade is a nice touch. I was sure you'd go for the gun."

His knees were pressing on her chest. Hermione felt like her ribs were about to break.

"Do you people think that just because you have the gift of magic, it somehow makes you more valuable than me? Better than me? _I hate you_ ," he spat. "All of you."

"I know," she replied, sorrowfully.

Her sincere response surprised him. For a moment, it looked like he was experiencing a moment of self-doubt, but it was so fleeting Hermione thought she might have imagined it. "You are different, you know that? You make me want to care about you. You're as dangerous as Honoria claims."

He shifted away from her. They'd moved closer to the bedside table and he wasn't holding her hands down any more. The gun was so close…. _so very close_. There was nothing for it, he was probably going to kill after he was done with her, anyway. Hermione lunged for the gun, almost crying out with joy when her hand wrapped around the handle. She aimed it at face and did not hesitate for a second.

She pulled the trigger.

 _Click_.

He'd been bluffing. There was no way he'd leave a loaded weapon near her, even if it was meant to be a taunt. The man was a psychopath.

"That's my girl," he smiled at her, and then he wrapped his hands around her throat and began to squeeze.

* * *

Amarov's elite guards were, as crews went, rather motley. Some were former thugs for hire with no family attachments to make them vulnerable. They had survived the worst of the Infection's early days because of their prior training and access to illegal weapons than the average suburban family had no chance of acquiring. In the zombie apocalypse, the meek did not inherit the earth. They got eaten.

Other guards had once been gangsters or petty crooks. Three of them had been Amarov's personal bodyguards. Before the Infection, their jobs were reasonably cushy. It mainly involved driving Amarov to work, to restaurants, to nightclubs and back, manhandling occasional paparazzi and ensuring that his lady friends were discreetly exited from his residences, the morning after. They did not work for Amarov due to some sense of innate loyalty. Theirs was a loyalty that could be bought with money or the promise of rewards, or disrupted if a better deal presented itself.

It was also safe to say that all of these men knew their way around a firearm and were more than capable of defending themselves against the Undead. Zombies were terrifying, but they did not shoot back. The fact was that surviving a zombie outbreak also entailed surviving _other_ survivors. People were unpredictable. They were capable of extraordinary acts of heroism (and conversely, stupidity). They lied. They formed alliances.

They walked onto the bridge of the Morning Star to face fifteen armed guards, all of whom drew their weapons simultaneously. Draco stood at six feet, two inches, but still looked somewhat dubious holding on to Anatoli, who was twice his bulk and three heads taller. It helped that Anatoli's hands were tied behind his back and a pistol was pressed to his neck.

"Drop the gun!" ordered one of the guards.

Draco looked almost offended. "I don't think you know how this works. You see, this man is my _hostage_. I caught him, fair and square. If you want him back in one piece, I ask that you listen to my proposition. I've killed quite enough of you tonight. No one else needs to die."

There were a few chuckles. "There's only one person drying here tonight."

"Who is this fool? Is he from the 'Peia?"

"He's Alexander's scientist—one of the wizards from London."

"You are crazy, wizard!"

"I'm crazy?" Draco scoffed. "I'm not the one who's about to sail off with limited fuel and no supplies. You had a nice thing going here and it doesn't have to end just because the good guys have taken over the fleet. You did hear the broadcast made by my people, didn't you? There were never any explosives. It was all a ploy to convince you that Amarov had the upper hand, to control you and everyone else in this fleet."

One among the men stepped forward. "Even so, it doesn't matter. You're outnumbered, here, wizard. This will not end well for you. We'll shoot you, with or without Anatoli in the way."

"I _told_ you," Anatoli muttered.

"Be quiet," snapped Draco. "How was Amarov paying you?" he asked them. "In rations, correct? How do you think he's going to continue rewarding you for risking your lives every single day, now that my people have all his resources?"

As Anatoli had confirmed for Draco, this was a very germane concern among the guards. The only reason they were still active in their roles was due to inertia. They hadn't considered their options post-Amarov. Not yet, anyhow.

"We don't want any more killing. Not here, not in the prison hold or in the Pit," Draco looked at each of the men. "There's been quite enough of that already. I'm proposing a peaceful surrender. Give me Amarov and I promise you amnesty. You can re-join the fleet and share in our shelter, food, water, medicine."

"How do we know we can trust you or your people?"

"You don't, but the alternative is worse. If I'm telling the truth, you stand a chance of carving out a reasonable standard of living within the fleet. With Amarov, you'll be adrift on the ocean, or you'll run aground within a week. Do you know what an unpaid servant is called? Because that's exactly what you all are."

Doubt spread like a virus. It was almost visible in real time. Some of the men whispered to each other, some argued and cursed. One man eventually came forward, dropping his weapon at Draco's feet. The rest fell like dominos after this.

"I'd like a berth on the _Normandy_. It's one of the oil tankers. I used to work on one, a long time ago."

"There's a girl on the _Istana_ …she'll be happy to see me again."

"Please, I need medicine for my lungs."

Common sense prevailed. The guards abandoned the bridge without a single shot fired. They were told to wait on the deck for further instructions. After Draco untied Anatoli's hands, the large guard pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at the perspiration on his brow.

"In English, how do you say it? My pants? They are _brown_."

"Thank you, Anatoli. That's lovely."

"You are welcome, Weezard."

A detail belatedly occurred to Draco. "Prestin wasn't here."

Anatoli picked up one of the abandoned rifles. "My pleasure to find that rat man."

"Wait," Draco stopped him. "Don't kill him. He's currently the fleet's only qualified doctor. We'll put him to work."

"Fine." Anatoli swapped the pistol for Draco's tranquiliser gun. "This OK?"

"Better. Radio Blaise and tell him to send two boats."

"Why two?"

Draco dropped his other rifles, taking only a single handgun. "One for the guards. Another to transport Amarov and Prestin. I don't want everyone on the same transport vessel."

"Good idea. After that, do you want me to go with you?"

"Not for this next bit," said Draco and then he was sprinting down the corridor in the direction of Renauld's quarters.

* * *

The pressure was agonising. Hermione felt like her eyes were going to rupture from their sockets. Her fingers clawed at Amarov's hands, trying desperately to pry them lose. But she could not dislodge him. Her vision began to grow fuzzy again.

And then suddenly the pressure released. Blood roared past her ears, which was probably why the sounds of the door opening or Amarov being flung across the room didn't immediately register. Hermione rolled over to her side, coughing violently as her bruised throat struggled to let air in. To her utter amazement and relief, Draco was suddenly above her, though she could barely see him through bleary, tear-logged eyes. The hands at the side of her face were the most gentle she'd encountered in the last twenty-four hours. She grabbed his wrists and squeezed them to reassure him. Merlin knew she had no voice to use at the moment.

Hermione felt him pull the sheets around her before he was gone. Still gulping in air, watching from a foetal position on the bed, she saw Draco stalk Amarov across the room. Amarov was shirtless, dishevelled and panicked. It was amazing how small and slight he looked, now that all his power was gone.

Draco, in contrast, was enormous in his cold fury. He was holding a single gun and looked like he was about to rip Amarov limb from limb, but in a controlled, methodical manner.

"Not so brave without your threats, your guards or your guns, are you?"

Amarov turned to the weakest link in the room. "Hermione, listen to me. It doesn't have to be like this… I apologise for hurting you, I was angry. I was defending myself…"

_"Do not speak to her."_

Hermione really wanted to get to her feet, but she was worried her legs would collapse beneath her. Draco did not need that kind of distraction. Where was everyone else; the so-called rebels? Surely he wasn't here by himself?

Amarov turned his attention back to Draco, staring at him as if he'd only just see him. He backed up until Renauld's armoire was behind him, holding up placating hands.

"Let us discuss this like civilised people."

Draco's chuckle was low and sinister. He didn't advance on Amarov, but paced back and forth in front of him. "Oh, you and I are far from civilised."

Something snapped in Amarov. Hermione had never seen him so angry. She supposed it was fitting for him to lose his cool now, when all control had already been stripped from him. As for Draco, Hermione could be forgiven for believing she was looking at Lucius Malfoy.

"Do you know who I am!"

"Yes," nodded Draco. "You're the fool who's managed to make a Death Eater want to kill you. You may have heard of us? We make your pathetic attempts at genocide look like a playground spat."

"Oh, I know all about your kind!"

"I doubt it," Draco said. "You don't look anywhere near worried enough. Allow me to remedy that." He grabbed Amarov by his neck and hauled him up higher, until both men were eye to eye. Draco spoke quickly and precisely. "I served one of the most powerful sorcerers to walk this plane of existence. He showed me many things, Mr Amarov, dark, malevolent, otherworldly things that would haunt you behind your closed eyes. You are absolutely correct to fear and distrust us, because to my former Master, you people were less than animals. You were a stain on the surface of a world that ought to belong to _my_ kind." Draco slammed Amarov against the armoire and stood over him.

"As you can see, I don't need my magic to kill you. But had I my wand, I would hurt you in ways you could scarcely imagine. I'd make sure you survive this. I'd turn you into something unrecognisable, twisted, hideous and in ceaseless pain. I'd root you into the ground for all to see. You'd remain there for as long as I wish it. Suffering. In misery and in abject humiliation. You would remain like that as testament to what happens when you cross not the best of my people, but the absolute, unmitigated worst among us; the darkest the magical race has to offer. That's wizards like me, Mr Amarov."

"Hermione…please. "You're not a killer." Amarov tried to look at her again, but was thwarted when Draco grabbed his hair to hold his head still.

"You will never see her or speak to her ever again, you son of a bitch. And she doesn't need to be a killer," Draco said, before pistol-whipping Amarov. "She has me."

The next steps Draco took were less steady. He stared at Hermione, walked to the bed, faltering slightly, but reached it in time to catch her as she launched herself at him. They held on to each other, unspeaking. Hermione buried her face into Draco's neck, releasing great, wracking sobs that ran through her entire body. Concerned that he was going to drop her, Draco turned them around so that he could sit on the bed.

Hermione was wrapped in a sheet and curled up in Draco's lap when Anatoli found them in the room. The guard noted Amarov slumped over in the corner.

"Oh, good. You're alive," said Anatoli. "It is done, then?"

"Nearly. Did you find Prestin?"

"I did. I put three darts in him. One to stop him, two more because I don't like him."

"And no one else remains on the ship?" Draco asked. He kept his voice very low and quiet.

Anatoli took Draco's que, lowering his voice. "No one still breathing. Is she OK?" he asked, frowning at Hermione. Her eyes were open, but she seemed uninterested in what was transpiring. There were deep bruises forming around her throat and it looked like she was on her way to developing a black eye.

Draco shook his head, subtly. "She needs Belikov to look at her. I'd like to get her back to the home ship immediately." He turned to look at the unconscious Amarov. "And him, too."

"Zabini has sent for the transport boats already. There is one other thing you might like to know. Good news on the radio."

"Good news?" Draco said, wearily. His right hand was rubbing slow, concentric circles into Hermione's back. "I think I'd forgotten what that even sounds like. What is it?"

"They caught Honoria. She disguised herself, tried to pass off as a prisoner when they were being transferred across to the Cassiopeia."

"How was she discovered?"

Anatoli broke out into a huge grin. "Zabini's little boy. He was standing on the 'Peia's deck, welcoming the new arrivals when he spotted her. Zabini says the boy was on top of her in a flash."


	37. Hermione Granger

Two days later, Draco awakened in the home ship's laboratory/infirmary to find Henry Miles Greengrass Zabini looming over him. The child was standing on a chair that was precariously tilted on two legs. He peered down at Draco, wearing an amused expression.

"What's so funny?" Draco asked, or croaked, more like it. His throat was dry. He was also nauseous and terribly thirsty, the aftereffects of the anaesthetic Belikov had administered in order to see to his wounds.

"The Professor cut your hair. It was _burned_. He said it smelled bad and had to go."

"How cruel, to cut a man's hair while he's asleep," said Draco.

Henry giggled. "The Professor's not a very good hair-cutter. Do you want to see the drawing I made?"

"Of my hair cut?"

"No," Henry said, rolling his eyes. "Another thing."

Draco's eyelids were too heavy. He closed them. "Sure."

"Henry! Get off that chair before you fall off and crack your skull open!" It was Blaise. He plucked his son off the chair and set him down.

"Sorry if he woke you," said Blaise. "If it's any consolation, no one's had much sleep. The brew from the fleet's distillery has been unleashed. It's the worst facsimile of alcohol I have ever tasted, and this includes Goyle's dungeon moonshine in sixth year. I estimate about half the residents are already drunk and the other half is catching up. How are you feeling?"

"Fantastic." Draco rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead and was momentarily confused by the odd, tactile sensation. And then he remembered that both his hands were bandaged, after the excruciating process of peeling off the gloves. "How long was I out?"

"Two days, on and off."

"Where's Hermione?"

"She declined any dinner and is taking some air on the deck. It's just after seven."

Draco reached for a glass of water from the trolley beside the bed.

"Here, let me help you. You're dexterously challenged at the moment."

Blaise assisted Draco in bringing the glass to his lips, whereupon he drained the contents in three long swallows.

"How goes the new order?" Draco asked. He wiped his mouth and settled back against the pillows.

Blaise groaned. "It's a challenge, but we're already receiving expressions of interest and nominations for a representative committee of Muggles and Magicals. The Committee will oversee the rebuilding of the fleet. No more unilateral decisions. Eight ships left this morning, many of them carrying Amarov's inner circle and some of the elite guards. Good riddance, I say! One of them was the Belarus, our largest oil tanker. However, we do have spares. We have also the desalination unit, thanks to Amarov's successful field trip. You'll be pleased to know we are still resource-rich, particularly if we properly ration everything. Suffice it to say, Amarov and his cronies were living a champagne and caviar lifestyle only because the rest of the fleet was barely scraping by."

"Is he secured?"

"Tied up and locked inside one of his own vaults. Honoria and Prestin are being kept in different vaults, alongside. Did you know that posh bastard has four Picassos on this ship?"

"Speaking of art…" Draco inclined his head to Henry, who had returned with his drawing.

"Can I show the man?" Henry asked his father.

Blaise put his son on his knee. "Yes. And you can stop calling him 'the man'. His name is Draco."

"Here's my drawing," Henry said, shyly.

The two adults examined the artwork. "Oh," said Blaise, "My. Is that…."

"Honoria," Draco concluded.

Henry nodded. "The nasty woman. Did my dad tell you? I caught her sneaking!"

"Yes, I heard about that. Very clever, Henry. You'd make an excellent Auror."

"Over my dead body," muttered Blaise.

"And is that you kicking her?"

"Yes!" Henry said, beaming. He was very happy the man could decipher his drawings. His own father was often at a loss.

"What is that in your hand?" It looked like rope.

"That's her hair. I pulled some out from her head when I jumped on her. Only by accident."

Draco looked impressed. Blaise looked pained. "And we've discussed how dangerous and silly that was, haven't we? You could have been hurt, Henry."

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry."

"Go and show your drawing to Anatoli. He'd appreciate it, I'm sure."

"He would," Draco agreed, after Henry left again. He coughed, and then winced from the discomfort. "So what's the outcome of Vadim's poking and prodding?"

Blaise sat back in his chair. "Best we can tell, you scorched your lungs, you have three fractured ribs, four gashes that were deep enough to require stitches and second degree burns over the tops of your hands."

"And a bad haircut, apparently," Draco added, reaching for some more water.

"In short, you are in predictably bad shape. But by some miracle, you, Granger, Anatoli and all fifteen of those guards made it off the Morning Star alive. I'm told, by the power of persuasion."

"More like self-preservation. How is she?"

It was the way that Draco asked the question that determined how Blaise answered it. He knew what Draco was asking.

"Whatever Amarov was intending to do to her…you arrived before the worst of it."

"Really?" said Draco, deceptively mild. "After already surviving the Pit, he was _strangling_ her when I walked into that room."

Blaise treaded very carefully now. "Which begs the question, why is he still alive? I don't think I could have held back, had I been in your position."

The look Draco gave him was bone-chilling. "Trust me, I _haven't_ held back. What about Granger's other injuries?"

"Prestin took a blood sample from her after she was pulled out of the Pit. Belikov checked the results and she's been cleared of the Infection. Physically, there shouldn't be any lasting injuries. I'm not a Muggle head doctor, but she's badly traumatised. She wasn't catatonic when you brought her in, but damn close to it. Belikov couldn't get a full sentence out of her when he was treating her—Malfoy what are you doing?"

Draco was already off the bed. "You left her alone," he said. "Unwise."

"You are in no position to be traipsing around the ship! You can barely stand!"

" _Already standing_ ," growled Draco, before discovering a minor problem. "Now get me some pants or get out of my way."

* * *

When Draco found her, Hermione was sitting with her legs hanging over the edge of the empty swimming pool that was recessed into the deck of the home ship. Around them, the lights of the fleet looked plentiful and beautiful, perhaps all the more so because many fleet residents were still celebrating.

She was dressed in an oversized shearling jacket and baggy trousers. Her hair was clean, dry and French-braided. They'd found her a pair of worn sneakers to wear. She didn't look up when Draco gingerly sat down next to her, functioning at only one-third his usual speed. His ribs protested, but the pain-killers kept the worst of it at bay.

"You should be in the infirmary," she told him. While her choice of greeting was quintessentially Hermione, Draco was concerned to note the utter lack of nag in her voice.

"It's cold here. Come downstairs and have something to eat."

"I'd like to stay." She finally looked at him. Even in the low light, he could see the bruises on her face. He knew he was scowling. Not _at her_ , but scowling nonetheless.

"Thank you for coming to get me," she said, looking down at the dark, empty swimming pool. There was a shallow, stagnant puddle at the bottom. "That's the third time you've saved my life, at great risk to your own."

"Then treat it with more care," he admonished.

Damn it. He had no idea how to go about providing her with what she needed. This was not a scientific conundrum. He couldn't hex, shoot, browbeat or intimidate this problem into submission. They—if indeed there was even a 'they'—were unchartered territory. He could not run experiments, could not waste time testing hypotheses and observing. She needed assistance and he needed to determine how best to provide that, immediately. He wanted to touch her, of course. He'd wanted to since Grimmauld Place, but right now she was the most fragile porcelain.

He saw that she was looking at his bandaged hands.

"Not your fault," he said, because somewhere over the last three months, he had at least acquired the ability to _occasionally_ read her mind.

"Anatoli said you started that fire to save Padma and me."

"Yes. Not that it did much to help her in the end."

He instantly regretted speaking. Talk of Patil did not go down so well. She swiped the sleeve of her coat under her eyes. "I don't think I'm handling this very well. I can't sleep. I can't even manage the simplest tasks without breaking down," she told him, with a humourless laugh. "Honestly, Malfoy. I couldn't write my own name if you asked me too. My head's all muddled. Loud noises make me flinch. Even the other scientists cleaning beakers in the lab sent me scarpering. I think I scared Henry Zabini yesterday. I saw him and goodness, he's adorable, isn't he? What did I do? I burst into tears. I can't _think_ , I can't _do_. It's excruciating just…. _being_. I want to not be, just for a little while, if it's possible? If that even makes sense?"

"Granger," he began, "there is no correct way to handle this. No points for Gyrffindor to be earned here. You've been through a great deal, after already going through a great deal in the last twelve months. We all have our breaking points."

"Except for you." She stared at him, almost mutinously. It was slightly heartening. " _You're_ not falling to pieces."

He brought up a knee and balanced his forearm upon it. "That doesn't mean I haven't got a breaking point. If I do, I'm not keen to know what it would take."

"Before you found me, I had smuggled out a broken blade from the Pit. I kept it in my boot, the boots Padma kept telling me to put on, ironically. It was in my pocket when I…when I was in bed with Amarov."

"Clever," was all he said, through gritted teeth. Because if he said out loud what he wanted to do to Amarov, she was going to scarper _from_ _him_.

"Only the blade wasn't for Amarov. Before I knew the biofeedback device and the bombs were all a sham, that blade was meant for me. You see…" she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I was a coward. In the Pit, there was a moment when I was sure I was going to die, and I hoped my death would mean that they would let Padma out. They said only one of us could leave the Pit alive. The thing is, I was almost happy! There was relief, Draco. I wouldn't have to fight, worry, love, lose, any of it. Not any longer. So when Padma sacrificed herself instead, I was…" her voice broke.

He placed one of his bandaged hands against hers. Not holding it, just touching, side by side.

"….I was angry at Padma for taking that escape _away_ from me." Hermione shut her eyes. "I didn't want to survive her loss. That makes me the most awful, selfish, ungrateful human being."

The follow up to these dark revelations was too important to risk by using the wrong words. So they sat in silence for a few minutes. Refuting her assessment of her actions was not going to be productive at that point. His reassurances would fall on deaf ears. She needed some distance from the event.

Draco had to address one specific matter, however.

"Granger, if you felt or feel anything for me, promise that you will never, ever take that option. And if you feel you might, you will tell me. _Promise me_."

"I promise," she said, more easily that he liked. He frowned.

"Our last conversation at Grimmauld Place was about sharing the burdens you bear. I want you to do that with me. Let me carry some of the weight. Hell, let me carry _all_ of it."

Hermione gave him a small, watery smile, crawled forward towards him and surprised him by kissing him on the mouth. She kissed with fierce desperation, taking his face in her hands, careful of the cut above his left eye, running her fingers up through his uneven hair and clutching at the front of his jumper like she was trying to claw something out of him. For the second time in two days, she was in his lap, this time with her legs wrapped around his hips. He slid his injured hands down her back, cupping her backside, pulling her closer because it felt indecently good… and so few things had felt this good in such a long time.

He bore the brunt of her gentle assault, but soon, concern for her started to overwhelm his baser urges. She had not even begun to recover from Amarov's attack. This was _not_ the place for this and this was most certainly _not_ the time.

It wasn't until the kiss began to turn decidedly carnal, until she began to softly moan into his mouth and grind into him, did Draco understand the depths of her distress. This was not authentic Hermione. This was Hermione struggling to find a distraction, a drug, something powerful and heady to transport her away from the present. Her small, questing hands worked their way under his jumper and the t-shirt beneath, testing and kneading the muscles of his chest, brushing past the bandages that bound his injured ribs and the cut along his side. They dipped lower still. He gently caught them when she began to tug at the waistband of his trousers.

She pulled her mouth away, her lips red and glistening, her face flushed. "No?" she asked, looking so painfully young that Draco wanted to go downstairs and rip Amarov's fucking head clean off his shoulders. He responded perhaps a little too gruffly, grabbing her around the waist and with impressive strength, lifted her off his lap.

"You don't want to…?"

Had she still been sitting on him, she wouldn't be asking such a question. It was amazing that his body apparently felt there was enough blood to spare, after losing so much of it recently.

"You need time," he said, with a voice like gravel turning in a metal bucket. Damn it, all. He could still taste her. He sucked in a slow, deep breath.

"I don't want time," she said.

"What do you want?"

" _You_."

Draco thought he might understand this, too. He represented everything she could not have allowed herself in the past; the freedom to choose (wisely or not), indulgence, instinct and want, not duty and obligation.

The first two toggles of her shearling jacket had come undone. With hands that were clumsy from more than just bandages, Draco fastened the toggles and then almost hesitantly, he pushed an errant lock of hair behind her ear. "In the meantime, what _else_ can I do to help you?"

"I want to go home." It was said so softly he might have missed it if he hadn't been listening so hard.

"To Grimmauld Place?"

She shook her head. "No, not Grimmauld Place. I don't want to do any of this anymore. I quit. I want to go home."

He could have kicked himself for not working it out earlier. It was very bad, then. She didn't even want to see Potter. Not yet, anyhow.

"You want to go to your parents, in Australia."

She nodded, biting her lip. "But even though I'm not able to work right now, how can I possibly leave the research effort? What could I say to everyone?"

"Easy. You say you quit. You leave it behind and I take you with me."

"But how can I—?" This was the source of her conflict, the crippling, soul-flaying guilt.

"You can and you will," he told her, emphatically. "Come with me. And when or if you feel up to it, I'll bring you back."

"What about Project Christmas and the end of year deadline?"

"If London burns, then it burns and no one can say you didn't try your best to prevent that in the face of adversity that would have destroyed lesser people. We've made considerable progress. And Zabini will bring Potter and the staff from Grimmauld Place to continue working on the cure."

"Leaving all of them is cowardly."

"Not for you. You cannot help them right now."

"But what about you? They _need_ you."

He got to his feet and pulled her up. "Belikov and his team will more than make do with Wallen, Yoshida and McAllister. The complete D.R.A.C.O. formula is here for them. As for me, haven't you learned anything at all? After Hogwarts, I bloody well do what I want."

She gave him a quiet, heavy look. "And what do you want?"

He sidestepped the question, posing one in return. "Do you think staying here would be good for you? If you honestly do, then we'll stay."

Draco could see how much she wanted to lie to him, and for them to both believe her lie. But she could not bring herself to say it. She looked beyond him, at the fleet in the distance. "No," she said.

He was proud of her. For probably the first time since she arrived at Hogwarts, she was putting what _she_ wanted above what she was _expected_ to do.

"But how would we even get to Australia? The International Floo network is dismantled."

"If we go, it'll be by Portkey."

Her look of wide-eyed incredulity was endearing. It occurred to Draco that the problem with wearing your heart on your sleeve all the time was the likelihood that it could get squashed. "You have a Portkey?"

"No, but I know exactly where to find one."


	38. Promises

Harry was pretty sure he was about to get punched in the face by Agent Barnaby Richards. This would have been rather unfortunate for three reasons. Firstly, Richards was still weeks away from fully recovering from his gun shot wounds. Secondly, Harry would probably have to punch him right back, which led directly to reason number three—Harry did not make a habit of punching senior citizens.

"Stand down, old man," Harry warned.

This did not sit well with Richards, who came at him with a growl, only to be obstructed by the Minister for Magic.

"This is unhelpful!"

That was true. And to be fair, Harry knew how Richards was feeling because they were _both_ feeling it. They were men of action. They strategised, did the sums, suited up. They went to dangerous places and did dangerous things. None of this was required of them at the moment. The two remaining Project Christmas experts—Dr McAlister and Professor Yoshida—had been eating, sleeping and working in the laboratory for the past few weeks. All inhabitants of the Grimmauld Place house worked to assist their efforts. Nothing, absolutely nothing else was more important than saving lives that would surely be lost, if the cure was postponed and the American's bombs allowed to obliterate London.

Or so Scrimgeour said.

But that was bullshit, Harry decided. Prioritising and acceptable casualties was for politicians. Harry understood why the Ministry had kept its murky secrets, but he would not forgive them. He'd had quite enough of helpless resignation and bystanding when it came to the Ministry's fuck-ups.

Richards' fist was still wrapped tightly around a handful of Harry's shirt. Presently, it relaxed, as did the man himself. The Cowboy backed away, looking weary. He ran a hand through his black and silver hair.

"You spend eight hours a day flying over open water. I can't seem to get through your thick skull how dangerous that is. Brooms are not designed to do that. I know you're Harry fucking Potter, but it's still a miracle you haven't crashed. This needs to stop."

Harry had been covering increasingly large stretches of coastline every day and he was still no closer to finding Amarov's fleet. The search was futile and everyone in the house knew it. One person, even a magical person, could not conduct such a search alone. But Harry would die before he stopped doing… _something_. Anything. He would not give up on Hermione.

"You don't need me here," he enunciated, his frustration so acute that it garnered a rare look of sympathy from Richards. "What the bloody hell else do you expect me to do?"

Richards placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Take Longbottom with you to Taransay. He's just as cooped up as you are. Help the Weasleys look after your people there.

Harry shook his head. "Neville can go. Ginny has things under control. I'm not needed there either."

"Listen to me, Potter," interjected Scrimgeour. "If Hermione and the others are still alive—"

"She's alive," Harry hissed. " _I know it_. I just need to get to her."

Richards narrowed his eyes at Scrimgeour. "Are you gonna tell him or do I have to get hit in the face after all?"

"Tell me what?" Harry demanded.

The Minister hesitated for the briefest moment. "We're evacuating everyone to Taransay. It's been decided."

Harry removed his glasses and rubbed the heel of his palm into his forehead. "Oh yes?" he asked, cuttingly. "Who decided?"

"I did." Scrimgeour said, with cold authority.

"And I agree with his decision," Richards added.

Harry put his glasses back on stared back and forth, between the two, older men. "And what happens when Hermione and the others turn up? If they have no wands, how are they getting to Taransay? They'll be stranded here in the city, in the worst possible place!"

"Potter—"

"Don't," Harry warned, shaking his head. He took a step back from the two men. "Evacuate the house. Do it. I'll help however I can, but I'm staying behind."

Richards took a step forward, closing the gap between him and Harry. He grabbed Harry roughly by the upper arm and pulled him to the parlour windows. The thick drapes were shoved to the side.

"Look! Look outside! What do you see?"

Harry saw what had been there for the last few weeks—a growing horde of zombies, drawn to 12 Grimmauld Place as if the house was sending out some kind of beacon to all the magical undead in the area. Or as if the creatures had communicated this same fact amongst themselves. Whatever the reason, they were there and they now numbered in the hundreds. They were passive, for the most part, standing, watching, occasionally testing the ward boundaries, only to be deflected.

But the wards were weakening. No amount of shoring up would protect the house from simultaneous attack from that many magical entities. And if or when the zombies worked this out, it would be minutes before they brought the walls down.

"They are going to breach, son," Richards said into his ear, his fingers digging hard for emphasis into Harry's arm. "They've been wearing down our wards, bit by bit, day by day. My guess is that there probably isn't any fresh meat for miles and they see us here, sittin' pretty. We're like a termite mound to a determined ant eater."

"The wards will hold," Harry said, through gritted teeth.

"Sure, but for how much longer? I know this place means something to you kids—to you and Granger. But we'll have to cut our losses…"

In another time, another place, Harry might have been embarrassed to show a man like Richards the agony he felt, the tears that filled his eyes, but he was too worn down; too bereaved to care. "I've endured enough losses," he said.

Richards sighed. He stared at Harry, long and hard. Harry could feel Scrimgeour nearby, watching them.

"I'll stay with the kid," the Cowboy announced, still looking at Harry with narrowed eyes. "We'll catch up with you at Taransay."

Scrimgeour seemed angered, but unsurprised. "Very well."

* * *

Honoria peeled her heavy eyelids open, blinking rapidly so her vision could catch up to the conclusion her other senses had already arrived at.

She was in the Pit; her current stupor due to the application of (quite likely) the same sedatives Prestin had administered to Hermione. Well, she supposed that was fitting. The unusual numbness in her extremities made her glance down at her hands, at which point she noted that her torso, arms and legs were all tightly bound to a chair. Sitting across from her, beneath the glare of a floodlight and trussed in a similar position, was Alexander. He sat regally in his chair, no specific expression apart from something that could best be described as resigned amusement. The dark hollows on his face were due to more than the shadows cast by the lights overhead. She estimated they had been kept in the home ship's vaults for about a week. Unlike her, Alexander had already gained his bearings. Perhaps he had not deserved the forced sedative, as she had.

"You should have run," he told her.

It took her a while to work her tongue, heavy and dry as it was. "From them or from you?"

"Both. Seems a rather moot point now, anyway." He stared around the Pit, looking nothing more than contemplative. "We're going to be killed shortly."

Yes, they were. Honoria had known that fact the moment little Henry Zabini discovered her trying to make her surreptitious way aboard the Cassiopeia.

The human and zombie remains that previously made up the inherent décor of the Pit had been removed and it looked like the arena had been scrubbed to an almost sterile state. Perhaps the rebels were planning to reclaim the infamous Morning Star as a refurbished fleet residence? That made sense, as they now had nearly a thousand additional souls to rehouse within more humane, spacious conditions. The hatch that led to the zombie containment area was sealed, the heavy metal doors virtually welded shut from the heat of the fire that had signalled the start of the rebellion. The other door; the one that combatants walked through to enter the arena…that was open.

Beyond it, lay darkness, but Honoria guessed that whomever had put them there was not far away.

"I have to ask," Alexander said, bringing her attention back to him, "how were you intending to escape?"

Honoria flexed her wrists, testing her bonds. There was hardly any give. "I was going to steal one of the smaller boats and take it back to the mainland."

"And how long do you think you would have survived on your own?"

"Indefinitely," she replied, without hesitation.

Alexander snorted. "I believe that. You're a survivor. But I think you have loftier ambitions these days. I turned you into something more, made you consider a life that holds greater rewards than merely getting through each day." He stared around the arena, as if remembering the crowds that used to fill the levels. "Not like a beast of burden or a lower order animal."

He was referring to her recruitment to work for him, fresh from graduation at Salem. That was the year everything had changed for her. _He_ had changed everything for her.

"Do you regret it, I wonder?" he asked.

No. She would never regret any of it, but she would not give him the satisfaction of saying so. "And is this is where that promise leads? I get to die in a pit with you?"

"Transformation can come at a high price. I never said there was no risk."

"You changed, too," she told him. "Over these last few weeks. You're conviction…it waivered."

"Perhaps," he conceded. "But do you know what's worse than me, Honoria? None of my beliefs were your beliefs. The prisoners, the Games…none of that sat well with you. You never agreed with it. And yet you carried out your duties for me. You did everything I asked and you were able to do it all without believing any of it was worth it. Do you know what that makes you?"

She looked away so that he would not see her distress. "More of a monster than you are."

"They'll be writing the history books, you know," he said, with a small smile. "The winners always do. And you, Honoria, will finally get what you've always wanted, what you told me you deserved the very first day we met. Notoriety. Fame to rival Harry Potter. He was an orphan just like you, wasn't he? Bred for greatness, whereas you had to earn your stripes. You will finally be memorable among both our peoples."

"As will you," she pointed out.

"I'm already in the books, my dear," he said, managing to shrug, despite his bonds. "I hoped to create the cure in time. That would have been a better legacy…"

"They'll be the ones to find the cure. If nothing else, we've given them the impetus to work together."

He snorted. "Yes, there is always _that_."

She had to ask. She could not go to her death without knowing the truth. "When they were questioning me in the vault, they said you'd _attacked_ Hermione Granger."

It was astonishing (and hurtful) to see his contrition. Honoria had long assumed that such a thing was an alien concept to him. Alexander Amarov did not suffer from regret or self-doubt.

"I concede it was not one of my finest moments," he replied, with a sigh.

They were silent for a while.

"Does it shock you?" he asked. "Does it fly in the face of your preferred view of me—a villain, yes, but a civilised one?"

Honoria considered this. "She was playing you from the beginning, but you wouldn't hear it from any of us. And then you finally saw it for yourself, didn't you? You worked it out after the rebels attacked and then you couldn't handle knowing it. She _wounded_ you, fooled you and you wanted to hurt her in return. How could she not already be half in love with you? Because that was how you felt about _her_. Hermione Granger was meant to be everything you hated."

Alexander gave her a look that was almost malicious. "What you're really interested to know is why her and not you?"

Honoria replied with a look of intense loathing.

"I've seen a great deal of this world. I've travelled and I've experienced things both ordinary and extraordinary; enough for several lifetimes." He looked away from her, focussing on the metal grating of the floor. "I thought I might experience, just once, what it's like to know someone who would walk through fire for me…"

"I was that person!" Honoria shouted, her voice breaking.

"Yes, I suppose you were."

"She broke your heart."

His smile was wry. "And let that be proof, my dear, that I have one after all."

"As touching as this is, I have _loads_ to do today," Draco Malfoy said.

They hadn't noticed his arrival in the arena. He stood just in front of the entrance, white-bandaged hands on his hips. He looked as Honoria remembered him in their final days at Grimmauld Place—intense, less contained, less cautious. She'd always found it so unsettling that Alexander's cruelty and ruthlessness was encased in such a comely form. It made him even more monstrous, she thought, and added a poisonous edge to his beauty. Malfoy was much the same, but while Alexander was actually quite easy to decipher at the end of the day, Malfoy's inner motivations were still unclear to her. He played his cards quite close to his chest and he was the sort who could play several games all at the same time. Following the successful coup, he was among friends now. She didn't know whether this made him more or less dangerous. Honoria had no doubt in her mind, however, that he was going to be their executioner that day.

He approached her first. "Good morning," he announced, cheerfully. He lowered down to his haunches so they were eye to eye, observing her for a moment. And then he leaned closer. Honoria immediately tensed, trying to see if he held any weapons. His hands were empty save for the bandages.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to break my promise to you," he whispered into her ear, almost tenderly.

She knew the promise he was referring to, of course. Draco Malfoy promising to kill you was not something one was liable to forget. But of course he reminded her, for good measure.

"I am going to kill you, but you're not going to be alone when it happens." He inclined his head to Alexander. "You'll have company."

She stared across at Alexander, desperation evident in her expression. But he said nothing. Not a word, though his cobalt gaze never left Malfoy. Honoria supposed he had said enough to Malfoy already and none of it had warranted any mercy. Malfoy walked over to the entrance. There, on the ground, was a hessian sack. Inside was a something small and squirming. Honoria noted that Alexander was staring at the bundle quizzically. He may not have realised what it contained, but Honoria did.

After all, it had been Honoria who had taken little Eloise Withinshaw from the child's hysterical mother.

"Draco."

Malfoy paused in the middle of untying the top of the sack.

"You asked me once about Hogwarts. I never answered your question. I wasn't in a lower year. I was in Gryffindor. In the same year as you, in the same year as Harry and Hermione and Ron and Parvati and Neville and all the rest."

He frowned and she could see him retrieving the requisite memories. "I don't remember you," he said, now staring at her with genuine surprise in his pretty, silver eyes. In his hands, the small thing he carried in the sack began to growl. "I don't remember you _at all_."

And this was why it had been so easy to become what Alexander needed. Seven years at a school where even the furniture had more presence, where she had seemingly blended into the stone, where even teachers barely cared to remember her name, let alone anything else about her. Seven years of her life with her identity all by obliterated by the blinding, brilliant glare of another orphan—Harry Potter, and his friends and _their_ stories. She had been no one.

Alexander was staring at her, looking oddly proud. She was his creature and they would both go into the history books together. If nothing else, there was that.

"I know," Honoria said. She smiled, sadly. "No one remembers me. But _now_ you will."

Draco made it to the end of the first corridor before the screams started. Little Eloise had been left to starve until he'd found a new purpose for her. As the only remaining zombie specimen in the fleet, she was now an endangered species.

And she needed to eat.

* * *

Belikov was waiting for Draco in the transport vessel they would take back to the home ship. Not surprisingly, despite everything that the old professor had endured at Amarov's hands, he disagreed with what Draco had done.

"I say again, this is s _avagery_ …"

"And that's why I had to be the one to do it," Draco replied, steering the boat back to the home ship.

* * *

He was zipping up a long duffle bag filled with weapons and ammunition, when the door to his quarters flew open. Draco didn't have to turn around to know that it was Blaise who entered. It was his room too, after all.

"I just spoke to Belikov. Were you even going to tell me you're leaving?"

Draco picked up a second bag—a knapsack—and walked to the closet. He pulled out several woollen jumpers.

Blaise was in no mood to be ignored. He took hold of the second bag and yanked it from Draco's unresisting hands. "You are _not_ leaving this fleet."

"Why not?"

"Be serious about this!"

"I am being serious. Why can't I leave?"

Blaise blinked, anger momentarily stalling his tongue. "Because you are needed here! The cure—"

"Will be devised by Belikov and his team. Assisted by Dr Felix Wallen, Professor Yoshida and Dr Katherine McAlister. You have everything you need here to create the cure, certainly more than we had at Grimmauld Place."

That caught Blaise off-guard. "You…you want us to go to London and bring your colleagues _here_?"

"Yes," Draco nodded. "Accomplish what Amarov never had the foresight to even consider. Unite the teams. Bring them and their magic."

"Wands," Blaise repeated. He shut his eyes, looking almost pained.

Draco took a step closer. "Yes, _wands_. Zabini. We are not made to live without magic. It is…anathema. It is not to be borne."

"And yet we bear it…" Blaise whispered. He moved to the bed, sagging down on top of the thick bedcovers. He put his head in his hands.

"You'll not hear me discussing this in front of Granger," Draco told him, "but I suspect us Purebloods experience magic deprivation differently. The discomfort is...acute. Over time, all magical folk lost our ability to cast wandlessly, as easily as our forefathers once did. We rely on a conduit. Without a wand, we are crippled."

"You survived more than six years," Blaise pointed out, head rising.

"I did," Draco agreed, "But even in prison, I was surrounded by magic. A poor substitute, but it was something. After I was released from Azkaban, the first time I held a wand was in the service of the same Minister who put me in my cell. The sensation was…" Draco's eyes unfocussed for a moment "…exquisite."

"You did it to save lives," Blaise concluded, but then he gave Draco a canny look. "To save _Granger's_ life, more likely. Merlin, that's why you're leaving. She's asking you to take her away!"

"She didn't insist. I offered." A long, black coat was taken off a hanger in the closet. Draco tested the depths of its pockets and seemingly satisfied, slipped it over his blue jumper and dark jeans. "Even with your limited knowledge of her, do you know Hermione Granger to be anything other than self-sacrificing? If anyone breathes so much as a word about needing her, she would stay, to her own detriment. Sanity be damned."

"Tell her you've changed your mind! Tell her it's impossible!"

"I haven't and it's not." Draco took a handgun from the duffle bag and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, under his jumper.

"You cannot leave the fleet. People here need you. The people out there, the ones who are _dying_ by the millions. They need a cure!"

"They'll get their cure, just not from _me_. We're going to the Manor and we're leaving within the hour. There are hidden artefacts there that the Ministry had no hope of finding, no matter how hard they looked. I will recover what I can." Draco stared pointedly at the bag in Blaise's hands.

Blaise stood, he shook his head. "You selfish son of a bitch."

"I have never claimed to be otherwise, Zabini."

"Well, if you won't see sense, I'm sure Granger will! I'll speak to her."

" _Blaise_ ," Draco said.

Blaise stopped at the doorway.

"Were you with Daphne when she died?"

The question was unexpected. Blaise looked momentarily lost for words, and then he looked angry again. "Yes."

"She died in your arms?"

This was delivered so callously that Blaise actually flinched. He swallowed, now wary at the turn in the conversation. "Yes."

"Sick. Suffering. Helpless. Just as helpless as you were to do anything about it."

Blaise's hands fisted. His gaze dropped to the carpet and then he started shaking. "You bastard…"

Draco walked up to his friend, using the full two inches of additional height to bear down on him. "In those last, wretched moments, did you at all wish you had made a different choice? That you didn't risk everything by bringing your family to the fleet? Perhaps take your chances out there, on your own, instead of relying on people you barely knew? Did you feel regret, Zabini? Did you feel responsible for making the wrong decision? Did you ignore your doubts at the start?"

A clenched jaw was all the response Draco received for a minute or two. "Yes," Blaise said, more softly.

Draco nodded. "I'm going home to find something magical that can be of use, or better yet, a wand. Malfoy Manor is my best bet. And then I am taking Hermione to safety and we will remain there until such time she chooses to return. In the meantime, join the teams and bring magic to the fleet. You'll have your cure. And when you see me next, we can apologise to each other for this."

Blaise looked numb. He leaned heavily against the door, eyes red-rimmed and downcast.

"May I have my bag back now?" Draco asked.

Blaise hadn't realised he was still holding on to it. He handed it to Draco. "I don't think I ever thanked you for what you did for us."

"That's probably because you're still not sure if did it for you in the first place," Draco said. He resumed stuffing the jumpers into the second bag.

That earned a snort from Blaise. "Call it Slytherin scepticism."

Draco pulled at the drawstring of the bag before slipping on a pair of thick gloves over his bandaged hands. When he was finished, he picked up both bags and made for the door.

Blaise blocked the exit. "You'll die out there."

"Possibly."

"You don't know what it can be like because you were in Azkaban when it all happened. You don't know what people do to each other to stay alive…"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Is it any worse that what happened here?"

There was no response to that question.

"Move, Zabini." There was no anger in Draco's voice, but his tone was a few degrees cooler than previously.

With a great sigh, Blaise let him pass.


	39. Roadtrip

The weather was uncharacteristically spectacular that morning. Cold, but with enough rare, winter sunshine that Anatoli—who was used to much more frigid conditions—tipped his head up towards the sky and unabashedly soaked it in. He wished his wife had agreed to come on the ride, but she had too much to do back on her ship.

On calm seas, he dropped the wizard and Hermione Granger on the docks at Avonmouth and tossed the wizard the keys to one of three Range Rovers stored in a warehouse. These were the vehicles Amarov's men used to run supply missions into the cities. He didn't need to ask the wizard if he'd taken enough weapons. Draco Malfoy was carrying as many as his bag would allow.

"You also take this," said Anatoli, handing Malfoy a large cannister of fuel. "How far away is your house?"

Malfoy put the cannister down and unfolded a map he had taken from Amarov's study. "From Avomouth to Estree in Witlshire, it'll take about an hour and a half."

"Go where there is no people, no towns," Anatoli advised.

"Not much choice in that regard, I'm afraird. Wiltshire is landlocked."

"But your house, it is safe to stay there?"

"As safe as houses, I believe is the saying?" Malfoy replied.

Anatoli nodded, though he didn't think houses were particualarly safe. He'd seen what happened to too many of them.

Malfoy folded up the map and prepared to disembark. "It'll be fine until Christmas. After that, no one will be safe within a thirty kilometer radius of London, and that doesn't include fallout. Make sure the fleet is no where near the UK if it comes to it. I've discussed this with Belikov already. He knows what to do."

Anatoli thumped the wizard on the back. "You are very brave, weezard. I tell you this before."

Malfoy hoisted the heavy bag of weapons over one shoulder, a backpack across the other shoulder. "You've called me several things. I don't recall 'brave' being one of them."

"That is because my English is not so good," Anatoli said, with a grin.

"So you keep saying," the wizard replied, with what almost looked like a smile.

Anatoli watched as the couple walked up the jetty, Hermione Granger was carrying a bag of her own. She'd said nothing during the trip, but then this was the new norm. Anatoli was convinced it would be the last time he would see either of them alive.

The British Isles were a deadzone. Humanity had put up a valiant fight, but that fight had been lost a year ago. The Americans were right to want to blow it all to kingdom come, cure or not. Nothing could survive for very long out there, not even very brave wizards and witches.

* * *

Hermione watched as Draco gingerly pushed open the creaky doors to the warehouse, ducked quickly inside and then soon reappeared, beckoning her foward. His gun was drawn, she saw. The feeling that she was watching a movie of her own life persisted. It made her feel disassociated, like nothing that was happening to them mattered because it was happening to some other Hermione . It was damned unnerving and she wished there was a pill or something she could take to make it stop.

She'd asked Belikov about this, in fact, back in the infirmary.

"There is nothing I can give you except anti-depressents or a sedative. I'd suggest anti-anxiety medication, but we ran out of anxiolytics within the fleet's first few months. Amarov's people went through it all like candy…" said a disgruntled Belikov. "If I didn't hide the painkillers and transquilisers, we'd have none! But sedatives are the last thing you want right now. You need your wits about you."

What wits? She'd wanted to ask. She was witless.

In the warehouse, Draco set his heavy bags down, removed his gloves and took out the car keys. One of the three, parked Range Rovers immediately turned on at the press of a button. It was the one in the middle.

"Our ride," he said.

Now came the part where she attempted to _not_ be utterly useless. Draco was immensely capable. After all this was over, no doubt they would write epic tales about his capableness. But as it happened, he'd only driven an automobile once in his life.

The Range Rover was new enough that the leather upholstery squeaked. It still possesed its new car smell. Trust Amarov to ride in style, even during the zombie apocalypse. On a whim, Hermione activated the GPS unit and was mildly surprised when it turned on. A loud, friendly female voice in an American accent bid them, "HELLO," and asked, "WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO TODAY?" According to the trip history, the last supply run undertaken in this particular vehicle had apparently been to Exeter.

"Shall we enter our destination?" she said to Draco. He was still standing outside the passenger side of the car, having loaded their bags and the fuel cannister into the back seat. Instead of getting in, he walked around to her side, opened the door and leaned over her to enter the county in Wiltshire where they would be travelling to. His arm brushed against hers. He was so much bigger than she was. This was not a calming realisation. Hermione was tempted to recline her seat to give him more room and then wondered why his proximity mattered all of a sudden, given their recent encounter by the deck pool.

Perhaps she was regaining some of her original self back; the old Hermione who was as wary of Draco Malfoy as she was drawn to him

"I'm surprised the GPS is working at all," she commented, her voice tight. He was close enough that she could smell the fresh antiseptic under the clean bandages on his hands. Belikov had insisted on changing the dressings before their departure. "But I suppose the satellites aren't about to break down any time soon."

He had finished entering information into the GPS console. "They'll last thousands of years, but the accuracy of the information relayed by the satellites suffers without navigation updates from the ground. Technicians are needed to provide those updates."

"People," Hermione said.

He looked at her. "Yes. And we seem to be in rather short supply of those."

"How do you know so much about Muggle technology?" He knew about computers and certainly knew his way around laboratory equipment. But all that was more easily explained, due to his studies and work in medical research.

"I made a point of learning about it."

"A case of know thy enemy?"

"As I've said before, a case of curiosity. And prudence," he added, as an afterthought. "What would you be, if you lived in a very big world and only choose to understand one small part of it?"

"Foolish," she replied.

"WOULD YOU LIKE TO SELECT A ROUTE THAT AVOIDS TOLLS?" blared the GPS unit. It really was too loud, but the volume control insisted that it was on the lowest setting.

That garnered an amused look from Draco. Not quite a real smile. She hadn't seen one on his face in a while. He selected 'no'.

"CALCULATING!" yelled the GPS lady. "DISTANCE TO TRENT COUNTY, ESTREE, WILTSHIRE. 53 MILES."

"How far is that in kilometers?" Hermione asked.

She was grateful he didn't suggest she could work it out on her own. Of course she could. Just...just not presently. It was slightly endearing the way he frowned and looked up at the ceiling to do the math. "About 86 kilometers," he informed. "Looks like we're going via some long stretches of new road through Patchway and Marshfield."

"Is that a quicker route?"

"By about fifteen minutes. Keep the engine running. I'll open the warehouse doors while you drive up to them. And put your seatbelt on," he admonished, in an almost paternal tone.

With shaking hands, Hermione buckled up and then proceeded to drive slowly towards the doors. The hinges made quite a bit of noise and this caused him wince, once or twice. When she pulled up outside, he shut the warehouse doors and then climbed into the car. So far, so good. No zombie hordes had come running. Or lumbering, rather. Unless they were wizarding zombies…they were so much faster, so much more…

The car seemed to lurch forward. She felt rather than saw Draco pull the handbrake. His hands covered hers and then peeled her white-knuckled fingers away from the steering wheel. Hermione belatedly took her foot off the accelerator. The roar of the engine muted altogether. Or maybe it was the odd, internal noise-cancelling ability she seemed to have recently acquired.

"Easy," he said. "Breathe."

"I'm not sure what just happened," she looked at him, sheepish and apologetic. "Maybe you should drive?"

He shook his head, easing back into his seat.

"Honestly. I might kill us."

"You won't."

"Are you always this confident?" she demanded, testily.

Silly question. A minute later, they were on the road.

* * *

It was easy to forget what the world looked like when civilisation ceased being civilised. This was because people were used to roads and traffic lights and hospitals with 24-hour emergency rooms and never having to travel more than a few kilometers for your bread and milk. That was normal. In the developed world, that was the picture you saw in your head when someone asked you to think about the city you lived in.

The view outside the tinted windows of their car was something from a nightmare landscape. No amount of sunshine could change that. They were the only moving vehicle, though the roads were far from empty. There were cars, some in pristine condition, looking like they were merely parked. Other were burnt out, flipped to the side, russet-coloured handprints and smears over the metal, testament to the horrors of the past year.

All kinds of belongings spilled onto the road, telling similar stories—a plan for a quick escape, only to run into fatal gridlock when thousands of other motorists all tried to do the same thing. There were split suitcases, hemorrhaging clothing and other items like passports, picture frames, teddy bears, a laptop computer. There were school bags and diaper bags, one which still had a pacifier attached to it via a little plastic chain. It was possible to see where the tanks had come in and either run over or bulldozed their way through the cars on the main roads, travelling on scattered missions outwards from London in an effort to assist the populace. Hermione wondered where they all were now—these tank? How far had those lone soldiers made it into the towns before they left their protective shells for fresh air, to relieve themselves, to come to someone's aid, only to be taken by the fresh hordes that roamed the streets in those early days? Where there were houses, front doors swung open in the wind. Shop windows were smashed, their front-displays waterlogged and fetid.

Nature was already starting to take over. Tall grass and weeds grew in cracks and potholes along the road, encroaching slowly from the nature strips and roadside woodlands. Broken tree branches lay uncleared in the middle of the road. Hermione drove around them, just as she drove around the dozens of corpses. The bodies had clearly been there for months, worn down by the elements, but not fully desiccated, thanks to the wet, English weather. They'd been picked clean. All that was left was bone, tendons, teeth, hair and stringy muscle. Their skulls had been pulled apart and the brains eaten—a small mercy that prevented their reanimation.

At forty minutes into their journey, they ran into a road-block. Hermione stopped the car at the high, midpoint of a bridge. Before them was a virtual parking lot of about twenty or so abandoned vehicles. One car was teetering over the side of the bridge, front wheels in the air.

"We can backtrack and go around," Hermione suggested. She glanced back at the road behind them. There was a concerning amount of concealing shrubbery and nowhere to escape to if they were taken by surprise on the bridge. Every additional minute they stayed there was risky. The weather was moodier now, grey-black clouds slowly rolling over the horizon and a strong headwind was blowing.

Draco consulted the GPS display. "No. The next cross road goes through two villages and we don't want to be backtracking in the rain. I'll clear the way. Stay in the car." He took off his coat and jumper and was already out the door.

Hermione put down the passenger side window and forced herself to say, "Hang on a minute! I'll help!"

He came back to the window, the wind whipping at his unevenly shorn hair. "I won't be long. " he told her. "Keep the engine running." He was gone before she could protest.

Hermione rolled the window back up, leaving just a fraction of space open at the top so she could hear him in case he called out to her.

It started raining moments later; intermittent droplets followed by a near-torrential downpour. The previous sunshine was on hiatus. Concerned, she spent a moment squinting down at the dash and then at the controls on the steering wheel, eventually finding the button that turned on the headlights. Occasional splatters of rain came through the sliver of the open, passenger-side window. She was relieved to see Draco working steadily at the cars in front. He carefully inspected every vehicle, before opening the driver's side door, turning the wheel and pushing each car out of the way. Despite the fact that the second half of the bridge was on a downward incline, this was still hard work. She observed the strain and effort it took for him to move the cars. He was drenched, his t-shirt soaked to the skin.

After twenty minutes, nearly every obstructing car was pushed aside. Only three cars remained. Feeling uneasy, Hermione peered through the backscreen windows to keep an eye on the base of the bridge. But the rain was coming down so heavily that all she could see was a grey and green blur. It occurred to her that she could do more to assist than merely sit in the car and worry. Ensuring she was armed would make for a sensible start. She craned her head around to locate the duffle bag in the back seat. Unable to grab it from her current position, Hermione unbuckled her seatbelt and stretched out. Her fingers closed around one of the bag handles. She pulled it towards her, belatedly realising how heavy the bag was.

The thump on the passenger side window startled her. She froze and then very slowly, turned her head to look.

It was a policeman. Or rather, had been. The creature had a gaping wound at the side of its neck, but it was the massive, dent in its head that caught your attention. Half the skull was caved in, but unfortunately not enough to destroy the brain. Water pooled into the gruesome cavity, sloshing outwards every time the creature moved its lopsided face. Someone living had dealt that blow, Hermione surmised. She wondered how the person had fared. The creature raised a hand, slipping swollen, blue-black fingers through the gap at the top of the window. It tried to push the rest of the window down while simultaneously pressing its lips and mouth against the gap. The tongue lolled out, nearly black and riddled with wartish protrusions. Like some kind of agitated mollusc, it squirmed and undulated, as if attempting to taste the air inside the car, as a snake might.

"Errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrssssssssssssskkk….."

Hermione kept low and still, nearly holding her breath.

Oh, no. _Draco_.

Concern for him made her feel light-headed. She shut her eyes and counted to ten. They had both survived hand to hand combat with zombies in the Pit. This…this was nothing. If she could barely see what was in front of her in the rain, she doubted the creature could see Draco, unless he made a noise that was loud enough to sound over the storm.

To her immense relief, the zombie seemed to lose interest in the car. It straightened up, clicking its teeth together, as if in annoyance, and then turned away.

"YOU HAVE NOT ARRIVED AT YOUR DESTINATION," announced the sodding GPS unit. "WOULD YOU LIKE TO ENTER A NEW ONE?"

Hermione pressed her forehead into the cool leather of her seat. Would it be too much to hope that the creature hadn't heard that?

It returned, slamming its face against the glass and this time, placed all ten fingers at the gap on the top of the window and pulled…pulled so hard that some of the flesh under the first knuckles of its fingers began to split open.

A dark haze descended over her vision. Suddenly, Hermione couldn't seem to suck in enough oxygen. The more she gulped in, the more she felt like she was asphyxiating. She was going to throw up. There was a muffled thuddding noise, but she couldn't bring herself to open her eyes to see, to act. With Herculean effort, she raised herself up to a sitting position, slapped a hand over her mouth and nose in an effort to cease the ridiculous hyperventilation.

And forced herself to look.

The zombie was slamming its head into the glass; over and over. The forehead had split open, revealing bone. The nose was completely smashed in and still it persisted. When bone now connected with glass, the sound changed from thud to crack.

Slow, dark movements from around the back of the car garnered her attention. Three, four…six. No, at least a dozen. They emerged from the edge of the road, past the base of the bridge and followed the growling and desperate, violent noises of the attacking, former policeman.

Hermione wanted to climb down onto the floor of the car and hide. The need to make herself small, unseen and unseeing was nearly all consuming, but the thought of Draco outside on his own was even more unbearable.

And so she scoured her reserves and miraculously, found _something_. It was weak, but it would have to do. She turned on the windscreen wipers (it took an excruciating half a minute to work out where the switch was) and saw that Draco was walking towards the Range Rover. His gun was drawn, but he wasn't firing. She understood why. There weren't nearly enough zombies to warrant a full on fire-fight; not _yet_. And while guns were very effective weapons, they were extremely noisy and were liable to summon even more creatures. That was the trade-off. It was all about making good decisions. She suspected Draco was expecting her to do just that.

But she _couldn't_! Didn't he know this?

He caught her gaze, frowning slightly at what she imagined was her petrified expression. And then, calm as can be, he climbed onto the top of a red Corolla and began shooting into the horde. The zombies took the bait. They lurched towards him, slow, but determined, not noticing fellow members of the horde being picked off with head shots, one after the other.

Bang. Bang. Bang. He fired, unhurried.

Hermione swore. She knew exactly what he wanted her to do because a week ago, she would have done the same thing had their positions been reversed. Her heart was hammering so violently, it felt like it was trying to burst free from inside her rib cage. She bit her lip until it drew blood and perhaps it was that little jolt of pain that cleared the fog in her head somewhat. Now that the car was unhindered by both zombies and other vehicles, she put it into 'drive' and floored it. Three zombies hit the windshield, one rolled over the bonnet and she was fairly sure she ran over a few more, judging from the bumps along the road.

The car screeched to a half. Hermione quickly unlocked the passenger side door. Draco slid down the front of the wet Corolla and (damn the man!) _strolled_ around to the passenger's side before getting in. No further instructions were necessary. Hermione hit the accelerator and they were well and truly gone before the nearest zombie got anywhere near the red Corolla that Draco had previously been standing on. There were close calls and then there were more minor encounters like this, where you had firepower that you didn't even need to use, and a car that could take you to safety from an enemy you could outrun at a brisk jog.

All you needed was your wits.

Hermione was holding the steering wheel so hard, she thought it might break. Part of her was furious with him for putting them…for putting _himself_ in such a dangerous position, for testing her. Another part of her was euphoric. She felt the welcome warmth of the flush in her cheeks, the slowing of her heart rate and even though the fog in her mind was still there, it was no longer opaque.

"Fuck you. You could have _died_ ," Hermione raged, her voice hoarse from the strain of not screaming. She was so angry with him. _So, so angry_. How dare he take risks with his life and leave her responsible for the outcome! It was responsibility that had brought her to this crippled mental state! Was this his demented attempt at exposure therapy?

Draco reached across and very gently used his thumb to wipe the smear of blood from her mouth, from where she had bitten her lip. "Such language, Granger. I do believe you're starting to return to form." He then pulled off his t-shirt and threw the soaked garment into the back seat. It made a 'thwap' noise against the leather upholstery. A quick rummage through his backpack produced a fresh jumper, which he pulled on with no shirt underneath. Hermione caught the briefest glimpse of the faded knife scars along the pale skin of his belly, before they were covered.

They drove in silence along an uneventful, straight road for the next half an hour.

"APPROACHING INTERSECTION AT—"

Hermione turned off the GPS unit. "Let's just use your map. It's _quieter_."


	40. Controlled Risk

They arrived in Trent County, Wiltshire, just as the afternoon light began to fade. There was one additional stop on the way to the Manor, which now lay beyond a short rise and the small Wizarding settlement of tenants on the Malfoy lands. The rain had stopped by this time, thankfully.

Much like Hogwarts, the Manor possessed its own Muggle deflection wards, also encompassing the tiny wizarding village of Estree. Magic permeated the surroundings, to the point where Hermione had to bring the car to a stop so she could refocus. After so long without Magic, either wand-directed or ambient, the area had a curious effect on them. It was by no means the benign, comforting sensation of Light magic that was prevalent at Hogwarts, or the industrial charms that blanketed Grimmauld Place in recent years.

This stuff…it was sweet, cloying and _Dark_. There was a headiness to it that left you feeling anxious, but oddly happier for it. It felt like you were swimming through some sort of disorienting vapour and indeed, at some points along the village road, Hermione could actually see _currents_ wafting through the air, like a heat mirage. She parked outside what had once been the village bakery for a spot of mutual, silent contemplation.

No explanation was necessary. A quick sideways glance at Draco revealed that he too was experiencing the same sensation, though he looked markedly less disturbed about it than she was. He relaxed against the headrest, eyes closed, lips slightly parted and his expression serene, almost exultant.

A movement lower down caught her attention. Hermione saw his Casting hand stretch. He opened his palm and flexed, spreading his fingers outwards first and then hyperextending them backwards. She was still staring at that hand when she noticed he was staring right back at her, the look on his face bemused and indulgent.

She managed to use her words. "Does it feel good to be back here?"

He nodded, blinking once, very slowly. And then his gaze moved from her face to the window beside her. Now he looked less relaxed. "I'll be right back."

Hermione watched, with some concern, as he left the car and walked briskly to the entrance of the bakery. The reason for his departure was soon evident. A zombie stood beside the broken glass of the bakery windows, moving toward the car with the type of agility that signalled its Magical origins. The creature didn't just run, it _leapt_ , outstretched arms ready to grab. It ran into Draco's kick, flying backwards and onto a pile of broken glass.

Draco pressed his knee down into its neck. He looked around the floor for a moment, finally grabbing a section of broken window-pane (with glass still attached) and using it as a makeshift guillotine, severed the zombie's head. The body spasmed twice and then was still, murky, thick fluid spurting from the neck stump. More disgusting yet, the mouth of the detached head continued to gape open and shut for a minute, eyes rolling around wildly.

When all the post-post-mortem twitching had ceased, Draco got back into the car and shut the door.

"Mr Dobbs, the head gardener," was the explanation. There was apparently a sense of duty to put the poor man out of his misery.

"Mr Dobbs, the _headless_ gardener," Hermione corrected and then was appalled at her tasteless joke.

* * *

They proceeded over the small hill until the Manor grounds came into view. All that was visible initially were the wildly overgrown yew hedges, looking like they would swallow up the gates, given enough time. There was a single, lop-sided sign attached to the gates, in a spot where the family crest had probably once been.

**ENTRY TO THESE GROUNDS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.**

**PROPERTY UNDER FORENSIC QUARANTINE BY ORDER OT THE MINISTER FOR MAGIC.**

There was a monstrous, black chain and padlock holding the gate together. Hermione speculated that it was more symbolic than functional, signalling any number of spells that barred entry onto the estate. She didn't need to ask to know that Draco had probably guessed this was coming and that he knew something she did not.

They both left the car to approach the gate. "What now?" Hermione asked.

"It's one of our better party tricks, I suppose," said Draco, as he touched the padlock. "No physical barrier or enchantment can be wrought over the estate that prevents entry to any member of the Malfoy line."

True to his word, the padlock sprung open with a sharp hiss. Draco pulled off the chain and proceeded to push the heavy gates open for the car. He stood aside as Hermione drove through. She watched from the car as he shut the gates and then re-attached the padlock. No sense letting anything else enter after them.

It was a short drive along a wide, gravel driveway that led up to the house. More overgrown hedges lined the driveway on either side. There were smaller structures on the property—what looked to be a gazebo beside a lake, greenhouses and a fountain in the middle of a chequered herb garden. Though it was not yet dusk, the Manor seemed to be stuck in its own time zone. The darkness of the main house leached out into its surrounds. There was nothing inherently sinister about its Renaissance-style exterior, but the house _loomed_ over them as if it was some previously slumbering, great beast.

Hermione parked the car as close to the front door as possible, before they unloaded their bags. They stood together amidst an ankle-deep layer of dried leaves. The massive, arched double doors were locked, but she supposed that was no obstacle for the returning Malfoy heir. And it wasn't. Draco barely brushed his hand against one of the large brass door handles before the doors swung open with a creak, almost as if someone had rigged them to open via a sensor.

They entered into a dark, cavernous foyer. Curving, twin staircases lurked in the background, each leading to channels of darkness on the second floor that made their recent Hogwarts library jaunt look like a stroll through a summer meadow.

"Is there always such a sense of foreboding?" Hermione whispered.

He sighed. "Yes."

The wind picked up the dried leaves from the doorstep and carried them across the threshold, skittering along the floor. Inside, it might as well have been night. Every window had been boarded up. The remaining daylight from the open doorway revealed a fine layer of dust across the floor and over pieces of furniture that weren't draped with white sheets. There were numerous footsteps along the ground, most of them in trails, as if teams of people had traversed the halls and corridors. Several paths through the dust looked like they had been made by items that had literally been dragged right out the front door. There were spots on the wall where some portraits had once hung, but had since been removed. The paint on the wall looked less faded in these areas, in precise rectangular outlines. Other portraits remained, some of them covered with black cloths. Hermione suspected these might have been the more opinionated Malfoy ancestors. She imagined the haranguing the Ministry investigators must have been subjected to, as they worked to collect evidence and clear the house of hazardous artefacts.

"They stripped the carpet," Draco observed.

He walked further into the foyer, his footsteps echoing against the walls. A strung gust of wind blew yet more leaves inside and then the door slammed shut with an almighty bang, causing Hermione to jump. The sound seemed to reverberate through the entire length of the house. Draco retrieved a flashlight from inside one of their bags and turned it on. The light made the contours and hollows on his face stand out, while his light-coloured eyes took on a feline-like, topaz sheen. For a moment, he looked unrecognisable. And predatory.

"Let's get settled in," he said, holding out his hand to her.

* * *

Malfoy Manor occupied some forty hectares of land and consisted of the main family residence, two lakes and the nearby Estree Village. There were twenty-eight rooms in the house—seven on the first floor, thirteen on the second floor and the remaining eight rooms divided between the attic, cellars and House Elf quarters. There were no House Elfs, of course—they had all been freed following Lucius Malfoy's conviction. The house also included a library and an indoor aviary. Outside, there were two greenhouses, a fountain, an old stone dovecote and the aforementioned gazebo.

"What about the dungeons?" Hermione asked. Everyone knew about the Malfoy dungeons.

Draco took them directly to the library, stating that it had the largest and most well-stocked fireplace in the house. It had once been used for Floo travel.

"We don't tend to include the dungeons on the tour," he mused.

"Pity. You could have made a killing. Muggles love that sort of spooky stuff…"

She imagined an apoplectic Lucius dealing with a load of loud, common, camera-wielding Muggles traipsing through the house. It was almost enough to garner a smile out of her.

The library was dark and dank, as far as she could tell. But it was when he got the fire going and found several candelabras to light, that she got a proper look at it. And gasped. It was really quite spectacular. The Malfoy Manor library was built in an octagonal shape, with a sub-level that one could access via a narrow, wrought iron-railed corridor that was attached to the bookshelves. And oh, the bookshelves! There was enough to keep you going for _years_. It looked like about a third of the books were gone, likely taken by the Ministry. Hermione had no doubt the confiscation had been warranted. It didn't take a great imagination to ponder on the kinds of tomes Lucius Malfoy was liable to own.

Draco threw their bags down on a spot on the floor, under one of the long, boarded-up windows. He unlaced his boots, kicked them off to the corner and knelt down to rummage through the bags. It was odd seeing him in his own house, witnessing how familiar he was with his surroundings. You couldn't help but try to conjure up an image of the little boy that had grown up in such an imposing place.

"What is it?" he asked, abruptly snapping her out of her reverie.

Hermione realised she'd been staring at him. "I was just wondering about what it was like for you…living here."

"To be honest, I think I did most of my living at Hogwarts. Certainly during our formative years."

"You had freedom at school," she surmised.

"Some freedoms," he allowed. "Snape ran a tight ship."

"Do you miss him at all?"

He rose to his feet, a pair of dry trousers in his hands. "Every day."

There was a great deal more to say, and ask, Hermione knew. Perhaps later, at some point in a future where the fate of humanity wasn't hanging in the balance, to speak of such things would not feel like an indulgence.

Draco's hands went to his belt buckle and Hermione realised that he meant to change out of his wet pants. She felt bad for not realising how cold and uncomfortable he must have been, sitting in the car in wet trousers. But that was nothing compared to the damnable panic she suddenly felt at the prospect of a trouser-less Draco. Her hypersensitivity to stress and anxiety felt debilitating. She hated not having any control over it and not knowing what would trigger it next. Perhaps that was what scared her more than anything else.

Hermione spun around to face the door, listening to the swish of fabric, the sound of a zipper being pulled up and the dull clink of a belt buckle being fastened. She wondered if he thought her ridiculous and inconsistent for being like this, when just a week ago, she'd been practically grinding herself into his lap…

"You can turn around now." There was just a hint of amusement in his voice.

Mortified, Hermione went to sit in one of the port-coloured Chesterfields in front of the fire. He draped his wet pants over a chair and then came to stand before her. She saw that he was wearing a fresh pair of dark trousers. His feet were bare. She couldn't bear to actually look up at him or hear what he might say next.

"I think maybe we should talk about what happened that night by the pool," she blurted.

To her consternation, despite the seven other seats in the room, he chose to sit next to her. He threw one arm over the back of the Chesterfield and propped an ankle up on his knee. They were inches apart on the lounge now. The heat from the enormous fire was glorious.

"A pool is a bit of a stretch. It was more of a puddle."

"I'm being _serious_ , Malfoy."

"I know. You're _always_ serious."

She risked looking at him and immediately regretted it. As usual, his expression was difficult to place. He looked tired and sleepy and disturbingly intent.

"I was not myself," she continued.

He was a man without mercy. "Yes, I rather worked that out. It's not every day that Hermione Granger climbs on top of you and then attempts to grab you down your pants."

She dropped her burning face into her hands. "Oh God."

"I think you may have actually said that, at one point."

" _Stop_."

He did, though he didn't look the least bit contrite. "Have you changed your mind about leaving the fleet?"

Hermione looked up, her mortification forgotten. She would not let him think she was ungrateful. "No! I mean, it probably doesn't look like it, but I'm thrilled to be here. Honestly." She glanced around the room. They were dry, warm, comfortable and _safe_. It was everything she could ask for, given the circumstances. Here, she invariably had less to be confronted by and think about. She felt like her mind could safely unfurl for a time, and heal.

"Good," he said. "Come here."

It was simple English, but somehow the meaning of that request eluded her. Perhaps it was because he didn't really do requests that didn't sound like commands.

His eyes passed over her face with such intensity, she thought she could feel his gaze skimming over the bones under her skin. "OK. Maybe you need an incentive, just like when we were at Grimmauld Place. Imagine you still want the antiviral formula from me."

"But you ceded it to Belikov ages ago."

"Imagine I hadn't," he said. "Would you like the formula?"

"I don't understand where you're going with this."

"We're going to play a little game."

"I don't like games."

"Just answer the question, Granger," he said, though with no aggression. "Would you want the formula or not?"

Well, _duh_. "Yes, of course."

"And what would you do to acquire it?"

Right now? Not much. It would destroy her to summon the strength that had been required to deal with him at Grimmauld Place. But that's not what he was asking of her now. He was different. She was certainly different. He wanted her to run a hypothetical situation. Months ago, she...

"I would do anything," she replied, more breathlessly than she preferred.

He put his leg down. "Then come here."

Her heart was pounding. Her palms were clammy and it felt like the winning post-traumatic trifecta of dizziness, hyperventilation and nausea was moments away. But he'd been right about the controlled risk of their zombie encounter earlier. Maybe exposure therapy was weirdly helpful in this instance.

She crawled into his lap, straddling him such that her knees were pressed into the backrest of the Chesterfield on either side of his hips. Her bottom rested on his thighs, just above his knees. He observed her for a moment and it was enough to make her feel like she was already stripped naked. It was ludicrous, of course. He'd already seen her without a stitch of clothing on, at least _twice_. It was impossible to contain her shiver when he slid his right hand up to cup the back of her neck and kneaded the tense muscles there, just as he'd done in the Grimmauld Place labs the night Honoria had absconded with him.

"I'm scared," she said.

"Wise of you. I'm scary." His brand of reassurance left a lot to be desired.

His left arm looped around her waist, pulling the core of her body closer into him. He was so warm, almost a match for the radiating heat of the fire at her back. She could feel it through her jumper and jacket, even as her skin broke out in goose bumps. Hermione sucked in a big gulp of air and would have followed through with another, if he didn't seal his mouth over hers. She was startled and disproportionately terrified, but fought for calm. Her slow exhalation into his mouth was rewarded by a soft growl of approval. One of his hands grabbed the end of her French braid and pulled her head back slightly to expose her neck. He ran his warm, wet mouth from her lips to the side of her chin and then along her throat, leaving a damp, sensitized trail.

"How are we doing?" he asked, his voice muffled against her throat.

" _Not well_ ," she whispered. Her hands clamped down on his shoulders when he began to run little nibbling kisses along the faded bruises.

His head pulled back and he regarded her with almost clinical scrutiny. "Too one-sided?" Before she could makes sense of that, he took her hands and placed them against his chest. His own hands lay rather benignly at her hips.

Hermione frowned, her fight or flight instincts screaming at her to do the latter, but she ignored it. Those instincts were not to be trusted at the moment.

At first, she merely left her hands pressed against the soft wool of his jumper, feeling the beat of his heart and the rise and fall of his breathing. His heart rate was nowhere near as rapid as hers, but neither was he unaffected. Her hands moved up and over his broad shoulders, down his arms, squeezing experimentally at his biceps (which caused the blush in her cheeks to become even more brilliant), before sliding down his forearms and then stopping at his wrists. He moved his hands away from her hips so that she could thread her fingers through his.

They remained like that for a while. He mapped the contours of her hands. Occasionally his fingers would run up and down along hers, skirting the edge of her finger nails, dipping in between her knuckles on the back of her palm and inside the sensitive webbing. Neither of them said anything. There was just the crackle of the fire, and the creak and moan of an old house in the wind. Something constricted in Hermione's chest. This felt intimate and risky. It felt like something she could potentially lose and would not do well for it. Not well at all.

Draco reached down and pulled his jumper off. It mussed his hair as it went over his head. Hermione was transfixed. There was no force in the world that could stop her from bringing her hand up to run her fingers through the choppy, blond mess.

"This is a mess," she told him, rather uncharitably. It came out wrong. Though telling him he was probably the most beautiful, compelling thing she had ever seen would be much too sappy.

"It'll grow out," he replied. Hermione wondered why he wasn't touching her anymore and then remembered that he had handed the reins over to her. She felt a slowly building sense of power and control. Not anywhere near her usual level of self-mastery, but this was heartening.

Draco Malfoy was an odd combination of tame and dangerous. Hermione knew first-hand about male strength when it was used to harm and Draco had the potential to do her all kinds of harm—emotional, mental, physical. Instead of recoiling from that strength (though the urge was strong), she explored it.

Her hands turned curious. She ran fingertips across his clavicles, pressing them more firmly into his pectorals, before stopping to touch the scars at his taut belly. She knew she was wearing a frown and hoped he didn't think she was in any way put off by them. He inhaled sharply when her fingers skimmed his navel. He was sensitive there. She filed away that small morsel of information.

Venturing further south was going to give her palpitations, so she brought her hands back up, cupping his face and liking the texture of the dark blond stubble along his jawline. His lips really were quite lovely—well defined and expressive. Looking him in the eye was uncomfortable at present, but she made herself. When she did, she saw that his pupils were blown wide and black, such that there was almost no silver.

It belatedly occurred to her that he was no longer quite so passive. Nor were his hands still at her hips. They were cupping her backside and the new pressure she was feeling pressing into the apex of her jean-clad thighs was all _him_. And this particular aspect of him seemed as large and as scary as the rest of his person. The onset of her panic was so sudden, it made her whimper.

"I think…maybe can we…perhaps…Draco could we please stop?"

He went still. Rigid, actually. Hermione blinked with trepidation as he dropped his face against her shoulder and exhaled very, very slowly. She felt horrible about it, but decided that patting him on the back would be poor consolation.

He stood, simultaneously lifting her up and depositing her back on the couch.

Their little experiment had been about granting her control and it would be a backwards step if she said sorry for ending it. Though she certainly felt damned apologetic.

He had slipped his jumper back on. "I am going to bring us some food," he announced, with an almost amusing amount of formality.

She pretended not to notice when he discreetly adjusted the front of his trousers. Hermione wondered if it was unkind of her to feel just a teensy bit gratified at his discomfort. Discombobulating Draco Malfoy was a feat worthy of some kind of certificate of accomplishment, at the very least.


	41. Time

The sleeping arrangements made her smile. That was good. There were too few thing to smile about lately.

First, they located the smallest mattresses they could find. These turned out to be from a guest bedrooms upstairs. There was no way to get them down the stairs apart from throwing them. They tipped the first mattress over the bannister and it landed in the foyer with a loud bang, causing a cloud of dust to plume into the air. Hermione leaned over the bannister to have a look, stifling a snort at how silly the bare mattress seemed, plopped on the floor right in the middle of the late Lucius Malfoy's stately home. Draco had a better idea about how to get the second one down to the ground floor. In hindsight, she ought to have seen it coming. He grabbed her about the waist, ignoring her protesting squeal, hauled her down to lie on the mattress beside him and pushed them off. Down they went, bumping softly and swiftly along the stairs on their makeshift raft. The second mattress slid into the foyer, turning in a gentle arc and coming to a stop just beside the first one. Draco looked faintly smug.

Hermione was still flat on her back. She put her hand over her eyes and laughed. "I cannot believe you just did that."

He propped himself up over her, balancing on his elbows. "Would you like to do it again?" he asked, rather seriously all of a sudden.

She stopped smiling, now aware of his body on top of hers, even though he was bracing his weight on his arms. "I think that was enough mattress surfing for one day."

He helped her up and then she helped him push and drag the mattresses and assorted bedding, to the library.

They fashioned their beds a few meters apart from each other, but close to the fireplace and surrounded by stacks of books she had enthusiastically shortlisted. If there was an apt word to describe the set-up, it would be 'cosy'.

Romantic, too, she supposed. But that word held too much expectation.

* * *

Meals at the Manor were a minor adventure. Lucius Malfoy (the first) had been the one to come up with, in Hermione's opinion, a _brilliant_ method of storing secret supplies of food.

The first Lucius had been notoriously unpopular among both Purebloods and the Muggles he consorted with in sixteenth century England. The latter state of affairs was undoubtedly the reason for the former. It didn't help that rumours abounded regarding his jilting by Queen Elizabeth and it was said that he perpetrated a jinx against the monarch of such lasting power that she never saw fit to marry anyone else. It all sounded very fanciful, but you never knew, with the Malfoys.

In any case, following these alleged events, Lucius led a paranoid existence. He was convinced that a siege or a beheading was just around the corner. While it was quite possible for a wizarding household to seal itself off from outside dangers for a time, accessing food and other necessities would eventually become a problem. Muggles were often mistaken in assuming that magical folk could call into existence most anything they wished. This was only true for certain spells that did not require a corporeal outcome. And for most others spells, the raw components of the item you desired had to be available _somewhere_ to begin with and you had to have Summoning rights to it. This was why the pantries and larders of regular wizarding households traditionally had some of the strongest wards in the home. Otherwise, your supply of icing sugar was liable to go missing if a thoughtless neighbour had a penchant for casting almond shortbread without the necessary ingredients close by. It was not possible to create something from nothing at all, and unfortunately, no one had yet worked out how to transfigure furniture into pudding. Pudding without splinters, anyway.

Lucius the First accordingly hatched the idea of secreting away reserves of magically preserved food in a place nobody (except perhaps art history majors) was likely to look—paintings. Portraits were so ubiquitous in stately wizarding homes that no one tended to think much of them. Draco's father, the most recent Lucius, had thought quite highly of his namesake's forward planning. Over the years, he had added to the collection, which was why Hermione and Draco did not have to rely solely on Tudor dishes such as roast swan, boar's head and a stomach churning cockentrice.

There was more standard, contemporary fare like roast chicken, fruit and cheese, pies, and in one flamboyant painting—of an inebriated Septimus Malfoy wearing a white toga as he sat upon a black charger—six bottles of exceptional claret. All this was much more appetising than the canned food they'd brought with them from the fleet. A more recent addition in the library featured the late, Lucius the Second, sitting in a chair with a crystal decanter of brandy nearby.

"Pity we can't put anything more complex than meat, potatoes and alcohol into a painting," Hermione mused. She spoke with a mouth full of food as she stared up at a scowling, oil-painted Lucius. Draco didn't seem to mind her lack of manners because he was just as famished. You couldn't tell from the way he ate, though. He was the sort of person who could consume a meal, whilst having a conversation with you _without_ you realising he'd been eating at all.

Hermione, in contrast, had to pause every so often to wipe her fingers and make sure there was no food stuck in her teeth. They drank from cut crystal goblets that probably cost more than Molly Weasley's entire heirloom bone china collection. There was one piece of bread left on a dinner plate, acquired from a still-life painting in the foyer. They both reached for it at the same time.

"You have it," Hermione said, pushing the plate towards him. She was well acquainted with the vast amount of food Harry and Ron regularly packed away in one sitting.

"There's more. I'll get it."

Hermione wiped her hands on her jeans. "Wait, I'll go with you. I'd like to see how it's done."

Just outside the library was a painting of the late Narcissa Malfoy at a Black family picnic. It was not an ordinary picnic considering there was some kind of marquee in the background and house elves were pushing carts bearing pastries and a fizzy, pink beverage. Narcissa looked young, probably younger than they were now. She stood in the sun, wearing cerulean robes and carrying a lace parasol to shade her fair skin. Though the scene was festive, she did not look happy.

"She looks distraught," Hermione whispered, feeling uneasy. The night-time jaunt through the corridors to fetch more food felt less thrilling all of a sudden. She became acutely aware of just how dark it was outside the small sphere of light from their lantern torch.

Draco was staring at the painting with a curious expression. "I've never seen it like this. This piece was one of my mother's. She added it to our collection when she married my father. It was painted on the occasion of her eighteenth birthday. She's usually quite happy."

"Ask her?" Hermione suggested.

"Mother, is something amiss?"

The painting of Narcissa Malfoy responded to her son, but not pleasantly. Her face contorted into an expression that was almost grotesque. Her mouth hung open low, well past the natural jawline, in a long, agonising howl. But no sound emerged. And then, like an animation that had run its course, she resumed her previous, distressed expression, now looking human once more.

The small hairs on the back of Hermione's neck stood on end. It wasn't terribly unusual for paintings to behave oddly, but all the same, there was no point lingering in the dark corridor. "Let's just get the food and go," she suggested to Draco.

It occurred to her that she probably also ought to say something comforting and correct, but she felt like the more meaningful and perhaps more eloquent words were just beyond her reach. Her handicapped brain could not put together variations of "I'm sorry, you must miss her" and "I know she loved you very much" into an appropriate sentence. It was just as well that Draco was not one for sentiment anyway. He prepared to retrieve the food, pulling back the sleeve of his jumper. Hermione could sense his hesitation.

"Did it hurt when you did it earlier?" she asked. She was appalled to think it might actually be painful for him.

"No," he said, "but the spell takes a small payment when the user interacts with the magic. Psychologically, it feels like you're sticking your arm into dark, deep water without knowing what's swimming around inside it…"

 _Dark magic_. The Manor was rife with it. It was not inherently more powerful than Light, but it was famously easier to direct once you got over the challenge of summoning and wielding it. The downside, of course, was that Dark Magic was never practiced without it taking a toll on the caster.

Hermione watched as Draco very slowly pushed his hand into the painting, fingers first. She saw the faded Dark Mark on the pale skin of his arm and marvelled at how utterly unmoved she was to see it now. Perhaps it was just her current mental state that was affecting her usual reaction to the symbol? She kept on staring at it, trying to summon the memories of fear, panic and loss she had associated with _Mosmorde_ for so many years. The memories were there, but the feelings felt as faded as the tattoo. The Dark Mark had once meant a lot; a symbol to bind and motivate Voldemort's supporters, and to terrorise and exclude everyone else.

Draco noted her staring at the tattoo. "It cannot hurt you, Kiska," he said, and there was such uncharacteristic tenderness in his voice that she didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't the Mark that had her flustered.

It was his use of the nickname again. He hadn't used it in a while, but then she supposed the past weeks had not afforded them much opportunity to trade endearments.

"I know," she replied.

To prove it, she laid her hand on his arm, across the tattooed skin. What she felt was subtle, but extraordinary. Currents of magic were running down his arm, essentially from him, _into_ the painting. That was the price of the spell, for in this instance, there could not be something _for_ nothing. He was feeding the enchantment. Draco's interaction with the painting didn't register on the canvas, but when he pulled his arm out, he was grasping two large bread rolls and a slightly squashed lemon tart. As with all the other food he had previously extricated, it was as fresh as if it'd been whipped up by the house elves just that afternoon. Hermione peered closely at the trolleys in the painting and true enough, there was a blank space over one of the trolleys where the food had been taken. She studiously avoided looking at the disturbing, stationary figure of Narcissa.

"Remarkable," said Hermione.

He repositioned the two bread rolls in his right hand in order to split the tart into two pieces.

"Will it work if I try?"

"Be my guest," he offered. He was standing disconcertingly close, so Hermione was pleased to have a reason to put some space between them as she approached the painting.

She pressed her hand against it. All she felt was the canvas and the bumpy ridges of dried oil paint. "Bugger. I suppose this is another Malfoy party trick?"

He waggled his eyebrows at her as he ate half of the tart. His smugness made him look a decade younger. They could very well have been back at school. She gave him a canny look. "What else do you have access to in this house? Half the rooms are locked."

"There is nowhere in the house that I cannot get to. Like the gates, no door in the Manor can be barred to a member of the household who wishes to open it."

"But there are no wands here?"

"There are twelve unused family wands in total, but they are kept in the family vault at Gringotts. What I wish to acquire here is a portkey."

Hermione's heartbeat quickened. "Where is it?"

"I have a few ideas of where it might be."

They made their way back to the warmth of the library, Hermione lighting the way with the torch, Draco carrying the bread. Behind them, darkness reclaimed each section of corridor they vacated. He walked ahead and entered the library first.

Hermione stopped at the doorway, frowning out into the darkness they had just come from.

Ron had once said to her that the trouble with darkness was not so much what was in it, but the human mind's propensity to _imagine_ what was in it. It was this same propensity that gave the Boggart its power. Quite often, the longer you stared into the black, the more you started to see shapes coalesce. This was how the cloak on the back of your bedroom door turned into the bogeyman when the lights went out.

She was looking at one such…shape. The more she stared the more it turned into a hunched, loping figure slowly coming towards her along the corridor. Hermione shone her light on it and was unsurprised to find that the corridor was empty, but the unpleasant sensation remained with her.

* * *

Most nights, her dreams were nightmares. Or rather, they could all qualify as such.

What else would you call dreams where monsters chased you and people got ripped to pieces as a matter of course? Hermione remembered complaining to Harry a long time ago about how boring her dreams were and how little she seemed to remember about them upon waking. Harry dreamed of quests and danger and ending Voldemort. Hermione had dreamed about forgetting to hand in assignments to Professor Snape and then a few years after that, about forgetting to hand in Ministry paperwork on time and getting fired.

Now she dreamed she was kneeling down on the floor, in a bright place without walls or a ceiling. She was calmly focussed on stuffing Padma's spilled organs back inside her friend's broken body. It was like the Muggle game Operation, but in reverse. There was no little red buzzer to tell Hermione when she had put an organ back incorrectly. Dream-Hermione was not trauma-affected. She was formidable and decisive. She got the job done and always had enough humanity left in her after the horrid tasks were completed, to make you a cup of tea and reassure you that it would all get better soon.

"This too shall pass," she whispered to herself. Or perhaps to Padma.

Beautiful, brilliant, almond-eyed Padma was wide open, split from neck to navel. A masterpiece to enthusiasts of human anatomy. She might as well have been a grave-robbed specimen perused over by Victor Frankenstein himself. Presently, she was lucid and stared at Hermione with genial curiosity as the work progressed. Her dark, inky hair fanned out about her as if it had been arranged.

Hermione was methodical, because that was the only way to be. She picked up the liver, weighing the organ in her hands. People who had never seen a human liver were often amazed at how large and dense it was.

"I miss school," said Padma. She might have sighed, only Hermione hadn't put her lungs back in yet. "No one tried to _eat_ you at school."

Hermione paused to look at her old friend with a sceptical, raised eyebrow. "What school did _you_ go to?"

"Well, OK," Padma conceded. "I suppose there were more dangers if you were the close personal friend of Harry Potter. The rest of us had it much easier."

"Do you know what the most common cause of death is in magical children under the age of sixteen?" Hermione asked.

"I imagine it's the same for Muggle children—accidents?"

Padma's lungs inflated and deflated even as Hermione handled them. Her heart beat in Hermione's hands.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, but accidents due to _magical_ misadventure, not falling out of tree or crashing your bicycle or drowning in the family pool. We're talking about death, dismemberment and permanent disability due to magic."

Padma shrugged, causing her partially empty insides to jiggle a little. "Magic can be volatile."

"Magical parents and schools take a very lax attitude to safety," Hermione said. She rummaged through the pile of organs and membranes beside her, wondering if Padma's stomach was missing. No. _There_ it was. "Although when it came to Fred and George Weasley, I don't think there was anything more Molly could do to keep them safe. It's a miracle one of them survived."

Hermione slipped the stomach into place. Like all the other organs, it took root, reattaching itself inside Padma.

"What about you?" Padma asked.

"What _about_ me?"

"Will you take a lax attitude to the safety of your children?"

"I'm not a parent."

"Not yet, but you will be."

"I dunno, Padma," Hermione said, with some incredulity. "Does this seem like a very good time to have kids?"

"Mm," said Padma, watching as Hermione slid kidneys into place. "It's not. And you'll have a hard time of it on your own."

"What, no father in the picture?"

"Your sons will die and then Draco will die and then you'll be alone."

Hermione paused, a coil of small intestines in her hands. "Boys? How do you know I'll have sons? How do you know _any_ of this?"

"Everyone you love is going to die. And at the end, you'll wish you had, too."

"Why are you saying that?" Hermione whispered. She looked down at her hands, only just seeming to notice they were caked with blood to her elbows. She dropped the section of ileum she'd been holding. "You would never say that to me…"

Padma sat up, causing some of her organs to slop forward. "I'm not saying _anything_ to you Hermione. I'm dead."

* * *

_"…I'm dead."_

Hermione felt Draco's firm hands on her shoulders, shaking her awake. She bolted upright, wide-eyed and trembling.

"You were dreaming," he told her, his voice thick with sleep. He was on his haunches beside her bed. The room was mostly dark. There were only glowing logs in the fire. A glance at Draco's bedding revealed rumpled sheets and an opened book. He'd been reading a potions encyclopedia earlier before he'd fallen asleep. "Is it about Patil again?"

She could only nod. The same dream, but it kept ending differently and always before Hermione managed to put all of Padma back together again.

"This is the third night in a row. Would you like to talk about it?"

No. She didn't need to answer him. He could sense her reluctance.

They were silent for a while. And then Draco stood up. He'd been wearing a black shirt and Amarov's s long, woollen coat for most of the day. But he'd changed into a faded, grey hoodie before they'd turned in for the night. He walked across the room and retrieved his father's brandy from the nearby painting, stopping at a table to grab an empty wine glass.

Draco sat on the edge of her mattress and filled the glass. "Drink it."

"It's too early in the morning," she said, by way of protest, though in truth she had no idea what time it was.

"It's never too early for a fortifying drink," he said, with authority.

Still, she hesitated.

"It worked for Zabini." There was a note of impatience in his voice. Hermione felt a pang of guilt. The poor, exhausted man just wanted an uninterrupted night's sleep. He'd been systematically turning the house inside out for the last week, looking for the portkey.

She drank, coughing once as the burning liquid slid down her throat. He poured her another glass. She drank that, too. And then he sat on the floor beside her bed and told her to lie down once more. Only when she complied, did he pull up a knee and rest his chin upon it, closing his eyes.

"I want to forget," Hermione said. She was staring up at the intricately corniced ceiling.

"Short of magic or a blow to the head, there is nothing that can make you forget," he replied, eyes still closed. "What you survived will become part of you. You will be stronger for it."

"Is that why _you're_ so resilient? What happened to you? What did you have to go through to make you into…this?" She hadn't intended 'this' to sound pejorative, but it was too late to take it back now.

He didn't seem in the least bit offended. His eyes didn't even open. "Am I so very different to what you remember from school?"

Yes and no, Hermione thought. Little bullies sometimes grew up into men who used power and influence to intimidate. With a father like Lucius, there was every chance that the apple would not fall so far from the tree. But who could have predicted that the lure of Muggle technology and science would exact its Siren's call upon Draco? Or maybe it wasn't so surprising after all? Curiosity was a powerful motivating force, and she could see how Draco might be intrigued by the forbidden, reviled, alien world that was parallel to his own. Lucius might as well have slapped on a big sign over everything Muggle—'Danger! Do Not Explore!'

"Not so very different, I suppose," she said. "And you're wrong, there is something that can make me forget."

His eyes opened and this time he looked amused. "More brandy?"

Hermione knew exactly what was happening to her at that moment. It was no different to the incident by the pool on the home ship. Unfortunately, this insight did not mean she would refrain from using Draco to help her forget. Maybe she was just using her trauma as an excuse to allow her desires to run unchecked?

It was a rare thing to surprise him and she did just that by leaning over, catching his cheek in her hand and pulling his face closer so she could kiss him. The brandy on an empty stomach was helping things along, of course. She was emboldened, but most of all, she was driven by the need to momentarily cleanse her mind of the vision of a dead and suffering Padma. The kiss was soft and tentative. He was passive, letting her change the angle and depth. He didn't push her away, but he wasn't exactly cooperating either.

"Kiss me back," she said. She drew his bottom and then his top lip between her own, trying to coax his mouth open.

"Is that what you want?" he spoke against her lips. Other than their mouths, and Hermione's hand on his face, no other part of them was touching. Hermione thought that was quite deliberate, though if she stretched her neck any more, she was going to lose her balance, fall off the mattress and tumble into his lap. He was seated cross-legged on the floor now.

"Yes," she replied. "What do _you_ want?"

"I want you whole again before we attempt this."

She kissed one cheekbone, and then the spot just above his eyebrow where there was a scar sustained during his one-man takeover of the Morning Star. "That's what this is. Recovery." She kissed the bridge of his nose before moving down to his neck, which was partially obstructed by the thick hoodie. He'd had a wash earlier in the day and smelled wonderful to her. "Tell me what you really want. Not for me, but for yourself."

He was not one to enjoy playing games when _he_ was the one being toyed with. The change in him was breathtaking. He went from sleepy to alert in a heartbeat. He grabbed her chin, holding her kisses at bay. His grip wasn't rough, but it wasn't caressing either. He spoke into her ear, his warm breath and stubble skimming the sensitive skin just under her earlobe.

"Hermione Granger, what I would like to do to you is not conducive to your mental well-being at this point and requires your full participation. Lie down, get some sleep and we can talk later in the morning about all the many and varied things I _want_."

Her heart started hammering in her chest. The wild fear was fluttering closer. She willed it to keep its distance. "I want the same thing…" she heard herself say and felt terribly embarrassed. "Well, right now just some of it…"

" _Some_ of it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Tell me."

"You don't have to look so amused."

"Sorry," he said, though looked no less amused. His previously rigid posture relaxed. "Tell me what you want and I'll decide if you shall have it."

He was an imperious arsehole. But she thought he might also be allowing her time to test the veracity of her desires. Self-respect be damned, she decided. She leaned forward and whispered into his ear, her face nearly a Weasley shade of red.

When it was done, she sat back on her mattress and stared at her folded hands in her lap. Oh, he was a cruel sod to pretend to contemplate her request. After what felt like eons, he asked her to make some room on the mattress and climbed in with her.

 _Oh God_ , thought Hermione. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all? She started shaking again when she felt his hands on the buttons of the thick shirt she was wearing.

He paused.

"It's fine," she reassured. "Please proceed."

" _Please proceed_?" he repeated, a little incredulous. "I'm not sure I've ever received such a motivating invitation."

She turned her head to bury her burning face into his shoulder. " _Draco_."

"Close your eyes," he suggested. She did and thus missed the smile on his face.

The unbuttoning of her shirt took far too long. He was deliberately taking his time. When the task was completed, he spread open the shirt and laid her skin bare. It was cool, but not cold in the library, thanks to the permanent fire. Nevertheless, goose bumps were inevitable and so was the tightening of her nipples. It was too late to be concerned about her own body insecurities, and like any other woman, she had a litany of them. She and Draco were well past that now.

She could just make out his slow, steady breaths. He was doing nothing more than looking. Her breasts felt aching and heavy from want of touch. But he didn't so much as graze them and she knew exactly why—because that hadn't been what she'd asked for. Damn him and his penchant for precision.

Hermione held her breath when he raised his hand, but he brought it to her chin. He pulled down gently to open her mouth and then, to her surprise, dipped his thumb in to moisten it. Then he dragged that wet thumb down over her chin, along her sternum, in between her breasts, past her navel, leaving a wet, tingling trail all the way down to the waistband of the trousers she wore. Hermione felt light-headed.

"Ease your breathing, Kiska, or you're going to grow faint. There won't be any bad dreams this time, I promise."

He lay down beside her now and kissed her. Oh, it was delirium-inducing. He made her kisses look childlike in comparison. He opened her up, took his time, his tongue exploring her mouth with light, sweeping, investigative touches that made her ache for him to use more force. And perhaps that was the genius of his seduction, making her crave the very male power that had previously wrought such damage.

And while she was distracted, he unbuttoned her trousers (one-handed) and pulled down the zipper. By the time his fingers skimmed her pubis inside her underwear, she was arching her hips up to meet his hand and improve the contact. She knew what she wanted now and it was so close, so within reach and yes, she was forgetting all the awfulness that came before.

"More?" he said, against her mouth.

Yes.

He slid a solitary finger downwards, catching her just where she ached the most.

Hermione gasped. "I'm…oh. _Oh_."

"You're wet. Is that what you want to tell me?" His voice was low, teasing and if possible, even more arousing that what his hand was doing.

She'd meant to say she wasn't sure, but ok, ' _wet'_ it is. Oh, God. This was really happening.

"More still?"

Yes.

He added a second finger and used the pads of his fingers to rub small, light circles. He watched her, changing the motion of his fingers in concert with what made her moan, twitch or squirm, giving her more and then withholding so that she was a squirming ball of need in mere minutes. He was far from unaffected, though. She could feel the length of him pressing into her hip, as hard as iron.

"Please…" She was so close.

He reclaimed her mouth with his usual, mind-drugging, distracting kiss just as he gently slipped one slick finger inside her. Hermione wrenched her mouth away, making a protesting noise. She immediately clamped her legs together, trapping his hand. This was _not_ what they had discussed.

"It's alright. I won't hurt you."

No, he wouldn't, but her stupid damaged mind would hurt the both of them by making her panic and retreat. And then she would ruin everything. Again.

"We can do this," he assured her. "Together." And it was just that simple use of 'we' rather than 'you' that put things in new perspective. This was not just about her. She was not alone in her desire. He was right there with her. They were partners.

Hermione relaxed her legs and he obliged by slowly moving his finger in and out, occasionally curling it to explore her more fully. That made her gasp.

"You're so soft. So fragile. I could put marks on you without even trying…"

She was losing him a little, she could tell. His voice was thick, his breathing harsher and his words not quite as crisp and coherent as they usually were.

"I'm not soft," she protested.

"No. Not all of you," he conceded. He eased a second finger into her. "See? There we go, some delicious resistance."

Hermione immediately grabbed his hand, stilling his motions. It hurt, slightly. The pressure was uncomfortable now, the pleasure decreased. She turned her head away from his searching mouth.

Draco observed this closely even as he removed his fingers, though they still hovered over that part of her that was aching for him to touch. When she looked at him once more, he wore an expression of gentle contemplation.

"How long were you with Weasley?"

"I…we were never really together as such, but we got intimate on several occasions."

"And was there anyone else?"

"No. Just Ron."

Oh dear. Here it comes. She supposed it was inevitable. The way things were progressing, he was liable to find out eventually. Though the answer to the question of whether she'd ever been with a man ought not to be something she felt ashamed about (even at her age). Thankfully, however, he didn't press the issue.

Though he did press his fingers against her, harder this time, moving them more quickly and randomly varying the pressure and speed until she was squirming and frustrated at not being able to predict what he would do next. She could feel the release on the horizon, mounting, just within reach. Even if it didn't eventuate, the journey to this point had been worth it. All other concerns had fled. She was single-minded in her need to immerse herself in the moment, forgetting everything else.

"Please…"

Draco lips were at her temple. His free hand had slid under her upper torso, so that he was holding her beside him while his other hand was worked. She was glad for the anchor because she knew her unravelling was imminent.

"Tell me what you want," he said, his voice gritty.

"You know," she protested.

"Say it," he commanded, and he was cruel to slow the motions of his hand. His fingers ghosted over her slick, swollen flesh.

She moaned, her hips bucking off the bed, her hands clawing at the sheets. "Draco…"

"Say it."

She thought about what she must look like to him at that moment. Breasts exposed and her body golden-hued in the firelight, chest rapidly rising and falling, back arched, toes curled, her expression pained and intent. The image; her _own_ imagined image was erotic to her and she marvelled at the power of it. Also, if he didn't continue, she was going to have to finish herself off right in front of him.

"Please make me come," she pleaded, abandoning all shame.

He obliged, seeming to know exactly how she liked to be touched. Everything earlier had been research and experimentation. The academic part of her brain thought that the noises she made were ridiculous. They were primal and animalistic. She peeked through her eyelashes and saw his expression. He didn't seem to think her ridiculous at all. He eyes ran over her face, her breasts and finally stopping at the quick movements of his hand inside her trousers. And it was _this_ that sent her over the edge—the sight of Draco watching himself touch her.

Her climax was, well, _anti_ -climactic given her propensity for vocalisation in the lead up. She imploded rather than exploded. Draco extricated his hand and released her just as Hermione curled up into a ball and shuddered. He didn't do any more to touch her at this point and she was glad for it, because she couldn't have handled the extra contact.

It…she…the release came in waves and it felt like the oddest, most exhilarating, wonderful kind of anxiety. She could feel the internal contractions, quick, in rapid succession and then they eased, such that she was able to unfurl herself and melt right into the mattress. And of course Draco Malfoy was some kind of practiced sex genius to know that _this_ was precisely when he needed to drag her further into the warmth of his body and hold her close _just_ as she burst into tears.

Merlin help her, she didn't want to cry, but there was no force in the universe that could stop the onslaught. Hermione was quite sure she had never cried so hard in her entire life. These were loud, long, wretched sobs that came from the depths of her. There was such a profound sense of release. Not quite _relief_ , but it was still tremendous. He contained her and her pitiful crying within the confines of his arms and one leg thrown over the pair of hers. Nothing was said, because he wasn't a 'there, there…' sort of person. He was solid and safe and trusted. And this was all that mattered.

* * *

The figure that had been standing and listening outside the library continued onwards, stopping only when the portrait of the young Narcissa Malfoy spoke to it.

"Leave them be!" implored Narcissa, parasol in hand, the expression on her face one of acute distress. "I didn't tell them, but please, I beg of you! There has already been so much death in this house. He is my son, I—"

A knife slashed through the painting. It left a gaping maw in the middle of the ripped canvas and there were no more entreaties to be heard.


	42. Family

Hermione awakened, eyes opening to darkness and then adjusting to the dull glow of the logs in the fireplace. She stretched and yawned. There weren't yet any slivers of morning sunlight slipping through the corners of the wooden boards covering the library windows. She estimated it was probably just before dawn. Amazingly, she couldn't remember feeling more refreshed and energised in a long time.

The spot beside her on the mattress was conspicuously empty. She turned her head and saw that Draco was back in his own bed, asleep. Hermione wasn't sure what to feel about that. No, that was a lie. She felt a little stung by it, actually, but being Malfoy, he probably had reasons upon reasons for not sleeping with her through the night. In any case, she was feeling too good to waste time feeling sorry for herself.

Granted, her head was slightly heavy and there was a mild soreness between her legs, but it wasn't wholly unfamiliar. She'd done her fair share of drunken fooling around with Ron. There was also a less tangible wounded feeling in her chest, as if she'd sustained a blow that left no physical damage or lasting mark. No doubt it had come from the outpouring of tension and grief a few hours ago. The weeping had been torrential, she recalled, feeling slightly mortified. To his credit, Draco had held her all the way through it, not speaking, but she'd felt his hand stroking her hair and the same hand lifting her heavy hair to place soft kisses at the back of her neck, upon her temple, on her shoulder. She couldn't imagine that he'd led a life where providing that kind of comfort had been an even infrequent occurrence. As such, he'd done a splendid job.

Hermione felt the tears welling up again. She was a wreck, but she no longer felt unsalvageable. Hurrah and all that.

What she really wanted to do right now was clean up. A bath would be splendid and fortuitously, there was one bathroom in the house where hot water still ran, albeit it was quite a trek from the library. She had already had one earlier in the week and it had been heavenly. She left her mattress, grabbed her coat and backpack, put on her shoes and tip-toed past Draco's bed, which was closest to the door. It was impossible not to stop and look at him, even though it felt like she was stealing glances at something forbidden—Draco Malfoy at his most vulnerable. He was lying on his stomach, one arm bent alongside his head, his face tucked into the crook of his elbow.

Objectively, he was a damned fine-looking adult male. This fact did not go unnoticed by most.

He'd been considered rather short when they'd started at Hogwarts, but like many other boys, he'd caught up with the girls around third year and then didn't seem to stop growing after that. Girls and boys alike had stared. They did the same for Harry, but where there had been awe, admiration and hero-worship for modest, honest and plain-speaking Harry, there had been something different for Draco.

He'd been more than a simple bully. Even the smallest children knew that crossing the Malfoys might mean your father's Ministry job, or as some whispered, an accident befalling a member of the family where there were no witnesses to testify that the relative in question had not merely tripped…they'd been _pushed_. So yes, students had stared, including Hermione. But they'd kept their distance because what they saw was poisonous. Too risky to engage with. It was a miracle how the Slytherins managed to hold on to their friendships. Could any of them have trusted each other or spoken freely? Probably not. And the sad truth of it was that Draco had been as much a victim of the Malfoy legacy as he was a perpetrator of it.

In their later schooling years, Hermione remembered him as lanky, moody, watchful and academic. When the vertical growth had stopped, he had obviously stacked on muscle. And it was this strength that had saved them and others, on many occasions.

Such superficial considerations were of low importance given the state of the world, and yet there she was, considering them. She was stopping to smell the roses, Hermione decided. There hadn't been much time for such idle, romantic musings when they'd been teenagers. Remus Lupin had once said to her, with a paternal twinkle in his eyes, that you had to squeeze it in when you could.

Typically, Hermione had never been one to find light-haired men attractive. Maybe that came from spending a lot of her time with dark-haired gentleman that had all left a lasting impression—Harry, Sirius, Snape, her father, among others. Draco's blond hair was a mess of different lengths and ragged in some areas where the well-meaning Professor Belikov really ought to have used a sharper pair of scissors, but this in no way detracted from Draco's appeal. His hair was rough and haphazard, which made for an interesting contrast against his fine bone structure. She reached out a hand, wanting to run a fingertip along his dark blond eyebrow, just above his scar, and only just caught herself in time. He was a notoriously light sleeper.

She admired his hands, which went unbandaged now. They were strong and quick, like him. Those hands worked in the labs, they were precise, deadly if he needed them to be, and so very skilled when he used them on her. This latter thought made her face warm. The burn scars across the back of his hands, meanwhile, made her stomach clench because she knew where he had sustained them, and what he had been trying so hard to prevent.

Hermione was cognisant of the fact that Draco had allowed her to get closer to him, possible more so than anyone had done before, but she knew there were parts of him locked away still. Parts he did not think were for sharing. She knew this because it was her modus operandi as well.

There was a formality between them. An aloofness not borne from ill will or distrust, but from the way the both of them chose to deal with affairs of the heart. It did not do to throw yourself, bodily, into a river of unknown depths, when there was a nice, safe barge to take you to the other side. You needed to keep some parts of yourself quarantined because to share too much invited vulnerability. Harry had been that way with Ginny and though Hermione would never admit so to Ginny, she'd secretly agreed with Harry's decision. What good would it do to give Harry such a formidable weakness when for nearly two years, his life consisted of missions that bordered on suicidal? Harry's decision to distance himself from Ginny was an attempt to save the both of them from heartbreak.

To Ginny's credit, she was not the sort to pine and had simply got on with life each time Harry had pulled away. Hermione never understood why Ginny allowed herself to be put in such a position. Hermione knew she would not be so resilient if it was _her_ heart on the line. Still, it was impossible not to love at all, and so Hermione loved her parents and Harry and her friends dearly and worried constantly about their well-being.

But _falling in love_ was a decision. Better, safer, wiser to _not_ fall in love, because given the lives they led, there was an untold world of pain lying in wait for you. It wasn't about being a martyr, it was just good sense.

So what a bloody bother then, that she was already in love with Draco Malfoy.

Hermione knew it to be the truth as she stared down at him and ached to touch him, to curl up in his arms, hold him tightly in return and keep him safe, happy and well. She wanted these things so much it passed beyond mere physical craving. Padma's words from her nightmare terrified her. Hermione could not imagine a world where she had children with this man, let alone endure the loss of him and them. But then people did that all the time, didn't they? They took those asinine risks. Sure, some fell down and never got up from the grief, but there were hundreds of people back in the fleet who had endured incalculable loss. Blaise Zabini was among them. It was folly to put yourself in such a position. Hermione was adamant about this. The only recourse was to _stop_ loving, and she wasn't quite sure how to go about doing that.

She took a lantern torch from the mantle before making her way to the door as quietly as she could. It opened into the frigid cold and darkness of the corridor outside. Hermione stopped short, staring up in bafflement at the obvious bare spot on the wall where the painting of Narcissa had once hung. She scanned the floor directly below and then to be doubly sure, walked back into the library to see if Draco had removed the painting and brought it inside. Perhaps he had gathered it and the other food storage paintings to a single convenient location?

In any case, it was not in the library, and she was not willing to wake up Draco just to ask about it. Still, to make herself feel better, she unzipped their long duffle bag of ammunition and placed one of his guns beside him, on the floor. And then she made sure her own pistol was loaded before she set off for the lower ground, house-elf washroom. Overkill, probably, but better to be safe than sorry.

Though it was a staff bathroom, it was decadent, by Muggle standards. There were three baths, all of them roll-top, double ended, with centrally positioned taps in the French style, meaning that the tubs had no legs and instead sat directly on the black and white, marble floor. In the past, household water heating spells meant that a perpetually lit boiler supplied the Manor's bathroom and kitchens with hot water. A separate, smaller boiler supplied the staff quarters, running off house elf magic. The charm had not been dismantled by the Ministry investigation team. Quite possibly, they had relied on the same bathroom as their single source of hot water for their own cleaning and washing needs throughout their time in the house. Although the pipes were probably much older than the ones at Grimmauld Place, they were less cantankerous. The first time Hermione had turned on the taps, she'd been surprised that the water contained no sediment.

There was a large iron key in the keyhole. Hermione locked herself in, turned on the water and then set about lighting the candles Draco had placed there earlier in the week. No sense wasting the batteries in the lantern torch. After lighting six candles, she removed her clothes and approached the tub. There were no towels in the house, so they'd been using sheets instead. There was a pile of them folded next to the tub. The water was too hot; just the way she preferred it. She sank in, wincing a little and the heat and the sting, and then sighed.

Belikov had made sure they'd packed the basic necessities prior to leaving the fleet. As a grandfather to three teenaged girls, he knew this encompassed soap, disposable razors, sun-block, shampoo, conditioning rinse, a small pair of utility scissors and a first-aid kit. He'd also thrown in a half a bottle of perfumed moisturiser and to Hermione's amusement, a tiny department store sample of men's cologne, no doubt pilfered from one of the abandoned state rooms on the home ship. Grooming felt like the biggest indulgence, but oh, it felt good to lather up her hair and rinse out shampoo that smelled like vanilla. She then massaged a small amount of conditioner through her thick hair, twisted it into a bun and set about putting a disposable razor to good use. No wonder Draco had been willing to barter information in exchange for a hot bath. It had the capacity to make you feel quite human again. The glow from the candles in the dark bathroom was soothing.

Hermione rested back against the tub, drowsy and quite content. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the steam on her face. Rinsing off the conditioner could wait…

* * *

The cold air on her face and chest startled her into waking. Hermione realised she'd dozed off. Not for very long, considering the water was still warm. She sat up in the tub, alarmed to discover that the candles had all snuffed out. Though it was probably daylight outside, there were no windows in the bathroom. She could barely make out her hand in front of her face. Though she could not see it, she was fairly sure the door was open and it was the reason why the temperature in the room had dropped so dramatically.

But _why_ was the door open? She'd locked it. The answer seemed obvious. _Someone_ had managed to enter the bathroom and that someone was _not_ Draco. He would not frighten her like this.

There was no time to waste sitting in rapidly cooling water, pondering the what-ifs. Draco was upstairs, sleeping and probably unaware of the danger, if indeed there was any. She had a gun in her bag and she was going to get to it. Before she moved, however, Hermione listened very intently, her other senses becoming more acute in the absence of anything visual to process. There heard the steady drip-drip-drip of the faucet in the tub, the ever-present creaking of the old house above stairs. Other than that, there was nothing.

Cursing, she climbed out of the tub as quickly as her wet limbs would allow, lamenting how slippery everything felt because of the conditioner that ran down her body from her wet hair. She snatched a folded sheet as she ran to the vanity, where her bag and her gun were located, clutching the sheet to her chest.

Her wet hands rummaged through her bag. Damn it. The gun was gone, but the lantern torch was still there. With water-wrinkled hands, Hermione turned it on, spinning around to see if anyone else was in the room with her.

It was empty.

If there was some kind speed record for putting clothes on, Hermione broke it. Feeling marginally more prepared for whatever was to come, she shoved her feet into her sneakers and made her way out the door, carrying the torch with her.

Hermione ignored the fact that she was freezing. Her hair was wet, soaking the back of her shirt and coat. She'd forgone socks, which meant that her wet feet were gritty icicles in her shoes. There was something or someone in the dungeons, one level below the house elf quarters. The floor there consisted of stone, which meant that sound didn't carry as well as it did on the upper levels, but if she kept very still and held her breath, she could hear...

Scratching, scuffling and something that sounded like chains being dragged across the floor. Typical, spooky dungeon stuff. It occurred to her that she was afraid, but calm. The bright, red bloom of panic had not descended over her, sapping away her ability to think rationally. She felt, in that moment, like her old self. But this was no time to revel in the realisation.

There was a staircase about ten meters in front of her, leading down to the dungeons. From below, she heard a door creak, the baritone quality of the sound telling her the door was large and heavy. Presently, it shut and then bolts slid into place. Footsteps approached the staircase.

Hermione quickly turned off the lantern and flattened herself against the wall. Whomever it was clearly knew their way around the corridors well enough to navigate without any light. Hermione was not so lucky. She could not afford to stumble around in the dark with the intruder, and so she waited until the footsteps continued up to the ground floor, hating that they were heading nearer to Draco. After several minutes, she was just about to take the stairs to go up as well, when she heard the crying.

It was a woman.

Hermione clenched her fists, disbelief mingling with rage. What was this, then? Yet _another_ maniac who thought he could keep people locked up for his own amusement? She sucked in a breath to calm her nerves, before making her way very quietly down the stairs. The person who had stolen her gun was probably also responsible for the woman in the dungeons and Hermione had no idea where they were or when they coming back. She would have to be quick.

She turned the lantern back on. If possible, it was even colder in the dungeons, likely due to the stone and the damp. Hermione felt the chill all the way to her bones and wondered how anything could survive for very long down there without dry warmth. There were several empty cells and it appeared that the crying was coming from the cell at the end of the corridor. Though now that she was closer to the source of the sound, it was more of a low, mournful wailing, than weeping.

Hermione approached the door in question, looking for a small sliding window or grate, so that she could communicate with the imprisoned woman. There was none. It was a solid door with no peep hole from the outside and appeared to be so tightly sealed that there was hardly any free space around the door frame. With cold-numbed fingers, she explored the bolts that locked the door. They weren't chained or padlocked, which meant she could slide them free.

She placed her ear against the door. "Hello," she called out. "Can you hear me?"

The crying immediately stopped. There was a scrambling noise on the other side.

"Can you speak to me?" she tried again. No response for a moment and then the crying resumed, only now it sounded even more frantic.

 _Merlin_ , Hermione thought. What on earth had she and Draco stumbled onto?

There was nothing else to be done except set her lantern down on the cold stone and use both hands to slide the bolts free. There was were seven of them in total; large iron bars that were the width of her arm. Here was a room that could likely hold Felix Wallen in lycanthropic form. It would not surprise her to know that the Manor had dungeon cells built for specifically such a purpose.

The heavy door creaked open, Hermione using her entire body weight to pull it open once it had been unbolted. It was then that the smell hit her like a slap to the face. She staggered backwards from the force of it, not running into the narrow corridor wall behind her, but rather, into something else quite solid that reached out rough hands to steady her.

"Greetings, Mudblood. Come here to save the day, have you?" sneered Lucius Malfoy. He was filthy, grizzled, emaciated and wearing rags that stunk almost as much as the cell behind her. He was also holding her gun, but not in a way which advertised that he knew how to use it or cared to.

"I do so appreciate a meal that delivers itself," he said, before he shoved her into the room and slammed the door shut, sealing her in the reeking darkness.

* * *

Draco's eyes opened at the sound of the door slamming, the noise echoing through the empty house. He sat up, noting Hermione's absence from her own bed and the gun placed beside him. He got to his feet, pulled on his jacket, picked up the handgun and checked to see that it was loaded before shoving it into the waistband of his trousers. He also took a flashlight and rifle from their ammunitions bag, slinging the rifle across his shoulder. The bag was then placed behind a bookcase to hide it. His boots were pulled on next, unlaced. He moved quickly, the only thing giving him pause was the absence of his mother's painting in the corridor outside.


	43. Wade Out

I will wade out

till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers

I will take the sun in my mouth

and leap into the ripe air

Alive

with closed eyes

to dash against darkness

in the sleeping curves of my body

Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery

with chasteness of sea-girls

Will i complete the mystery

of my flesh

I will rise

After a thousand years

lipping

flowers

And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

**\- By E. E. Cummings**

* * *

The lantern landed beside her, but it was broken, cracked and in pieces on the floor. With shaking hands, she slid a shard of glass into her pocket, hoping it would not cut her through the denim of her trousers. On second thought, she really didn't care if it did.

All around her was blackness.

Complete loss of control was within reach. Hermione could feel it lurking at the corner of her mind as if it were a living thing, malignant and expectant, waiting for the right moment to pounce and drag her away into an entirely different kind of darkness.

_Tag. You're it. Panic._

Hermione would not let that happen because what lay beyond that panic was worse than the panic itself. It was mindlessness and that was a hell she did not wish to revisit. When placed in a room with no light and the certainty of hidden, lurking danger, the sensible thing to do was to find a corner and re-group. She moved with stealth and caution, using the adrenaline that coursed through her, ignoring the reptilian part of her brain that wanted to do nothing more than curl into a ball and play dead. But the danger would not pass. It would not be so easily fooled.

The dungeon cell was large. Hermione crawled along the floor for many minutes without once touching a wall. Her eyes were wide open, as if that would somehow permit some semblance of sight. Instead, her hands served as her eyes and she relied on them now. She was not alone in the room. That much was certain. The creature—at least she hoped there was _just one_ —was nearby.

It moaned, picking up in pitch depending on what it stumbled across in the darkness. Once or twice, it whined almost with contentment, grabbing a hold of something from the ground and then there was the awful noise of wet mastication. There was far more than just Hermione and a zombie in the cell. It took her a few minutes to process the fact that she was currently crawling over _body parts_ —legs, arms, heads, torsos, bits of hair, scalp, too many hands to count.

And blood. Merlin it was _everywhere_.

The smell was the first clue. It was so strong that it felt like a tangible layer of it had settled over her skin. In some areas of the room, the human remains were piled on top of each other so much so that Hermione had to stand up and walk around. She crawled over and through the putrid, decomposing remains, biting her lip to keep from making a sound when her hand became lodged inside someone's open chest cavity. And even as she did all this, she strained to listen for noises beyond the dungeon.

She could hear movement in the upper levels.

Lucius Malfoy was alive. He'd come home. He and his wife were supposed to be dead, of course. Killed by Aurors while being pursued years before Draco had been incarcerated. There had been a three page write-up in the Daily Prophet and everything. So where the hell had they been all this time? Hermione would be unsurprised to discover this was also the Ministry's doing. Secret-keeping and internal conspiracy habits die hard, it seemed. Even under Scrimgeour's watch.

This room was obviously Lucius' charnel house and a prison for the creature he was keeping and cared enough about to feed. It didn't take great leaps of imagination to work out whom the zombie had once been. Hermione thought of Draco and this very nearly tipped her over the edge into hysterics. But then her sorrow for him turned to fear, for Lucius was beyond that cell door, somewhere in the house and though their encounter had been blessedly brief, the elder Malfoy did seem a few Knuts short of a Sickle.

Draco was so very clever, but he would need more than that to deal with his father. Sentiment was not one of Draco Malfoy's usual weaknesses, though he was not wholly immune to its sway, either. Loyalty, on the other hand, had always been trickier for him to negotiate. Lucius had both these things in his arsenal to wield over his son.

After about twenty-minutes more of crawling, Hermione finally found a wall. She huddled down against it, grimacing as she slowly pulled bodies and body parts up around her to form a gruesome fort, of sorts; something to deflect the scrounging zombie, should it approach. It also worked to mask her clean, scented person with the oppressive, sharp, fatty stench of rotting flesh.

She felt around her little corner of the room. Disturbingly, not all of the bodies were in pieces. She touched people who were more or less, whole. At least there was no shortage of fodder for Lucius' pet zombie, which meant it was in no instinctual hurry to eat her. Perhaps its current search instinct was more territorial?

Clearly, all of the bodies in the cell were de-animated. Most likely, they had already been dead before being tossed inside. Hermione's searching hands found a haversack still attached to the body of a man. She unzipped the bag and pulled out several items, taking care to avoid any plastic bags, lest she make too much noise. There was some clothing, empty containers, empty plastic bottles, what felt like a roll of crepe bandage, crumbs, paper and kindling. It was the man's pitiful survival supplies.

Trying to keep her frozen hands steady, Hermione unzipped numerous smaller pockets, feeling around inside them. She nearly cried with relief when her fingers closed around a lighter. There was no point using it now and unwittingly alerting the zombie to her whereabouts. She'd have to devise some kind of plan of attack beforehand. Motivated by the success of her recent find, Hermione's hands moved more quickly through the bodies around her, scavenging what she could. Unfortunately, there were no weapons to be found.

She stopped when she touched a tiny hand. It was attached to a small arm and a body that was still wearing a jumper and trousers. The shoes were long gone, but there were socks (with bobbles). Long hair. A little girl. Intrigued and propelled by an almost morbid curiosity, Hermione touched the dead child's face. Soft, cold cheeks. A little, button nose. Hermione was amazed that something so unmarred could exist in this place. She ran her fingers along the back of the skull and was unsurprised to find a wound there. Further exploration revealed a slit throat, crusted over with dried blood.

How could it be that after all she'd seen in the last year and a half, that anything could still shock her? There ought to have been nothing left inside of her, nothing except for the raw, survivalist mentality that people needed in order to live in this new world. Though she was not a hundred percent sure, Hermione would put down a bag of Galleons on the assumption that Lucius had not been feeding his dear, departed Narcissa the human equivalent of zombie road kill. No, Hermione suspected he'd been harvesting fresh meat from amongst the _living_.

And that made him yet _another_ monster.

She slipped the lighter into her pocket and leaned back against the cold, dungeon wall, aware that if the zombie didn't eventually stumble upon her soon, she was probably going to die of hypothermia. She was soaked to the skin, covered in muck, blood and guts. But hey, at least the scented conditioner was now barely noticeable.

Hermione had no doubt that Lucius would return to the cell. The only question was how long would she have to wait? A day? Days? If not Lucius, than perhaps Draco would find her, but part of the survivalist mentality required that you didn't sit around waiting to be rescued.

Especially if you were concerned that you needed to be doing the rescuing this time.

* * *

Draco stood in the foyer, left hand hovering over his rifle, staring with unmoving intensity.

At his _father_.

The older Malfoy was gaunt, filthy and nearly unrecognisable. He was dressed in clothing that was so worn, it was now all the same colour. What had once been long, silver hair hung limp past his shoulders. In contrast to his clothing, his hair was an assortment of colours, dominated by browns and greys. There were long, deep scabs running down his face, half-healed gouges from what looked unmistakably like fingernail scratches. He was favouring his right side—Draco noted—leaning heavily against the bannister. Bloodshot eyes stared back at Draco, before crinkling up around the corners as Lucius staggered forward. The sound he made was halfway between a sob and a whimper.

Draco caught him at the zenith of an awkward, lurching, hug, frowning down over his father's back as Lucius held on to him. They remained like this for a while. The words that tumbled out of Lucius were nonsensical. He clutched his son with feverish desperation, as if he would vanish into thin air at any moment.

"I thought you were dead," Draco said, both a question and a response. And had Hermione been there to hear it, she would have also discerned the apology in that sentence.

Presently, Lucius pulled himself away, though his skeletal hands remained tightly on his son's shoulders. He was a shorter man now, seemingly shrunken in his emaciation. "I am dead," he smiled, tears leaking from rheumy eyes. "Your father is dead and here I am in his place." He touched Draco's face with rough, grime-covered hands. Lucius looked him up and down, taking in the sight of his only child, tall and hale and the antithesis of everything that Lucius currently was.

Draco frowned in return, contemplation rendering his face much more guarded, and colder, than before.

"My son. My beautiful son." Lucius' gaze took on a sharper edge, likely in response to Draco's clinical cataloguing of Lucius' person. "But then I suppose that was never our problem, was it? Never a lack of beauty," he said. He eyed Draco's rifle. "Expecting unwanted company, are you?" Lucius made to grab the gun, but Draco intercepted his wrist and held it.

"Is mother here?"

"Of course."

"Where were you?"

"Azkaban. They didn't tell you, did they?" Lucius smiled again, revealing blackened teeth. He was not entirely well, in more ways than the obvious. Up close, there was an audible wheezing at every intake of breath. His skin was flushed and hot to the touch. His eyes reflected his febrile state. "They didn't tell me you were there, either. Your mother…." He lunged for his son now, hauling him close by the front of his jumper. Draco allowed this, careful to keep the rifle at his back. "She was inconsolable when she learned that the Warden had been keeping you somewhere in the lower grounds. That filthy, Muggle loving, Irish—"

"Warden Finnegan," Draco supplied. He took a step back, managing to do this so subtly that his father did not notice.

"Yes," Lucius spat. "Kept you in a pretty glass cage, didn't he?" Here, he rose to his full height and blinked distractedly for a moment, picking at several dried leaves that had stuck to the hem of his threadbare shirt. "While the rest of us starved and lived with the rats…"

"How did you escape?" Draco steered him back on-topic.

"Escape?" he laughed. "No one except Sirius Black has ever managed that, my boy. Finnegan let us out. He released us into…" Lucius looked around the empty foyer of his grand home "… _this_. I am Lord of this Manor and I am powerless. It is an odd sort of torture, isn't it? I expect you know exactly what I mean. Look at what was done to the world while we were kept from it! Inferi run unchecked. Governments have collapsed, Magic is known to the Muggles, and my only son and heir lies with the Mudblood that helped to put our family in Azkaban." He sneered. "What have I done to deserve this, I ask you? What—" Wracking coughs waylaid Lucius' rant. He doubled over and would have fallen if Draco didn't prop him up.

"Where is Hermione Granger?" Draco asked, speaking directly into his father's ear. His voice was gentle, cajoling even, but his expression was something else entirely.

Lucius swayed in his son's arms, coughing, catching his breath. "The girl? The girl…"

"Lucius," Draco hissed, shaking his father back to alertness. " _Where is she_?"

"Why, she's having a little visit with your mother. Would you like to see?"

* * *

It found her.

The creature had commenced undertaking its own survey of the dungeons, aware that something alive had been tossed inside. It held on to that piece of information, adding further credence to the notion that it was a wizarding zombie and most likely, Narcissa Malfoy.

Whomever it had once been, it was clearly familiar with the layout of the dungeon. This was a horrible and fascinating fact and might have made the late Dr Alec Mercer rather excited. If Hermione had to hazard a guess, she would guess that the zombie had even attempted to create some order amongst the remains in the room. That explained the odd piles of…things. Body parts stacked in different areas. Hermione could only wonder at what method lay behind this madness. Like some kind of nightmarish bower bird, Narcissa had been setting up a little nest here at Malfoy Manor. And her husband had been assisting her.

The creature was thwarted by the stack of bodies around Hermione, but this only slowed it down. It began to climb over the barrier of human remains. Thankfully, it was incapable of moving quietly, releasing moans, groans and growls as it searched and grabbed. Hermione was more or less able to gauge its position in the dark.

When it was almost on her, she kicked at what she hoped was the creature's face. There was the sound of bone breaking, but the zombie was already recovering even as Hermione scrambled over the barrier and ran to the other side of the room, tripping over bodies as she went.

On one shoulder, she carried the haversack taken off the dead man. It would serve to tangle the zombie or muzzle it, if need be. There were no hard objects to be found on the ground. The largest thing Hermione had discovered was someone's hiking boot. She held this aloft now, resigned to the fact that she would have to use the sturdy heel to bludgeon the creature into true death. It was coming at her now, the moan turning into an aggressive snarl. Was it hungry for flesh that still moved? Was it angry that Hermione had messed up its interior décor? Who knew?

Timing was everything. One badly planned swing of her arm and the thing would grab her and set its teeth into whatever part of her it could get. Mercer had pondered long and hard on this apparent bloodlust. There may have been some basic nutrition zombies craved, or _thought_ that they needed, from eating human flesh (and livers, in particular). But equally possible was the simple fact that a plague that did not find some way to spread was a dud. And for a disease that was not carried on the air or likely to be spread via contaminated blood, there was almost no better way to guarantee transmission of the virus than to bite into someone. Infected saliva packed a punch.

Hermione backed up until she felt cold stone behind her and, miracles upon miracles, the unmistakable feel and sound of heavy chain coiled at her feet. What was a dungeon without some chains to rattle, she supposed. The shoe was promptly abandoned in favour of the chain, which she looped around an arm and began to swing.

She was scared. Very, very scared, but her propensity to be terrified had undergone an Olympic-grade training session only recently. Her tolerance for horror was much higher than before. There was still room for yet more terror and despair, but she had not yet reached that level. Not here, not now.

In the meantime, she'd be damned if she was going to die as Narcissa Malfoy's home-delivered dinner.

* * *

Lucius took him to the attic, keeping up a steady stream of oftentimes bizarre chatter the entire time.

"You must excuse how I look," he was saying, as he slowly climbed up the winding, steep stairs to the attic. "It's been…difficult."

There was no excusing his appearance. Not when the Manor had the facilities and resources to feed, clothe and clean him. Lucius was not a well man. But Draco was careful to say nothing as they walked. Distraction was the last thing Lucius could handle, at this point. The priority was to locate Hermione and then he would see to his parents.

They walked along a claustrophobically narrow corridor that was barely wide enough to permit an adult to pass through without turning to their side. This was a part of the house that only House Elves ever needed to access. Lucius' leanness and hunch saw him move quickly through this tight section. Draco's broad shoulders and rifle slowed him down. He held a torch, aiming the light beam several feet ahead of his father. Though it seemed that Lucius did not need the light. He knew where he was going.

"I know you've been looking for it since you've come here, haven't you?" Lucius asked, the wheezing was very pronounced now from his exertion. "The portkey. The one I told you about when you were a child? You've remembered. Very good."

"You have it?" Draco asked, keeping his tone calm, his voice even. The wooden floorboards here were rough, it seemed. No, not rough. More like…sticky.

"Oh yes! Scrimgeour's little sycophants would have walked past it every day. The fools. The mirror does not register as a magical device, not even with the most sensitive detector. It's old magic from the jungles on the other side of the world, blood magic…."

"Does it require a wand to operate?"

Lucius paused in his tracks to give his son a smile. This one was conspiratorial. "No. That is the beauty of it. Like the sustenance you've been acquiring from our portraits, all that is needed is an offering."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "What kind of offering?" The floor was definitely sticky. And there was the smell of blood, a scent that was unfortunately quite familiar to Draco.

His father shrugged with his uninjured shoulder. " _Life_. Enough to power the portal enchantment. Dark Magic is costly. So costly." Lucius appeared to consult his hands. "The trick….the trick is…"

"Yes?" Draco prodded. "What is the trick?"

"The trick is to ascertain _how much_ life is needed…"

There was a moment of weighted silence between them.

"Father," Draco said, frowning, "what exactly have you been doing here at the Manor since your release from Azkaban?"

Lucius sighed. They had arrived at the room. He beckoned his son forward, placing his hand on the handle of the door at the farthest end of the narrow corridor. He gave his son a look of resignation. "I've been trying to activate the Portkey. By Merlin, I have tried! Every day, I come here to try and I fail. I look after your mother, also. She requires so much care, you see? But our son is here to help us now." Lucius placed his forehead against the door and shut his eyes. "My son is here."

"Lucius," Draco hissed. " _Where is Hermione Granger?"_

His father did not respond. Draco moved quickly. He wrenched the older man out of the way and threw the door open, torch held aloft.

There was nothing in the room except a single mirror.

No wonder the Ministry team had overlooked it. The mirror was anticlimactically homely. It was made of flattened, polished metal, of the sort used as a reflective surface before the advent of glass. The entire artefact was only about a foot or so tall, warped and dull from age and was contained within a battered, wooden frame. While the 'mirror' was unexceptional, the state of the room was not. The floorboards were black. Draco knew this was from dried blood—vast quantities of the stuff. Narcissa was not there and neither was Hermione.

He'd been too eager, Draco realised. Too consumed with the need to find Hermione to realise that his father had wanted to bring him here for a reason. And that reason had nothing to do with locating Hermione. Draco turned to speak to his father, but was met with the butt of Hermione's gun. It struck him in the temple and he lost consciousness as he hit the bloodstained floor.


	44. Sacrifice

Lucius Malfoy was bleeding, his wound having re-opened from all the recent exertion.

He briefly considered stopping to sew it back up, but finally admitted that it was pointless. No amount of stitching would seal necrotic flesh. That was the way of it. Each time he attempted this primitive Muggle first aid, the needle sank into skin that was already discoloured and ominously fragrant. It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe, to think, to move. For several days now, his fever raged and his sleep-time delusions often crossed over into his waking hours. Which was why he had initially doubted his sanity when he'd witnessed his son and Harry Potter's pet Mudblood enter the Manor.

But no, it was real. Draco was alive and had come home!

Lucius had little time left, which is why it was paramount that he activate the portkey. Of course, the plan had changed now. It was no longer himself that he sought to transport, but his son.

The Chavín Mirror was magical, but it had only ever existed in the Manor as decoration, a conversation piece. As a mirror, it was useless. As a portkey, theoretically, it was meant to function. The Mirror had been used more than two millennia ago by Peruvian wizard-priests in ritual displays that were designed to garner the fear, awe and respect of their Muggle counterparts. Because nothing reinforced one's supremacy and mastery over nature and the common man, than being able to transport oneself from here _to there_ , in the blink of an eye. The Chavín wizards of old fashioned numerous Mirrors for their temples, for each could only hold a sufficient magical charge to be operated just once. As was often the case with early magic, blood and life was the price to be paid, but the damnable ritual necessitated that the sacrifice be a _willing_ one.

So far, none of the Muggles Lucius had captured qualified.

Of course, sacrificial victims would not be required if he simply had a wand. A wand could easily activate the portkey, but if he had a wand to begin with, he would not need the relic. Unfortunately, it appeared that neither Draco nor the Mudblood were in possession of their wands, either.

No matter. Draco was here now and the Mirror would be used to send him to safety.

Observation of the pair over the last week revealed a relationship, of sorts. Not quite romantic, but there was no mistaking the protectiveness they demonstrated towards each other. It was lamentable, but these were difficult, straining times and Lucius acknowledged that one sought comfort and allies where one could. Equally lamentable, this state of affairs meant that no matter how well Lucius argued for his plan, Draco was unlikely to condone the sacrifice of Miss Granger in order to activate the Mirror.

Another tribute was needed and it did not require much consideration at all for Lucius to nominate himself. After all, he was likely to die in a matter of days, anyway. What better way to die than to do it to save your only child? He had been intending to attack the pair in their sleep, but had been thwarted by his declining strength and on another occasion, by the furtive pleading of Narcissa. Not the Narcissa who was living in the dungeons, but her portrait.

It was a source of speculation as to how much insight magical portraits possessed, in relation to the desires of their living embodiments. If Narcissa's portrait was correct, than she wanted Lucius to end her agony. Lucius understood this desire, but rightly recognised that his wife was ill and did not know her own mind. If there was a cure to be found, his son would seek it out. It was only logical that Draco leave via the portkey, and once he had acquired a wand, could come back and assume care of Narcissa. There was certainly a sufficient supply of food in the dungeon to sustain her until such time that Draco returned. Lucius had seen to that. No sense in wasting the bodies of the failed sacrifices. And it had been such back-breaking work to lure the Muggles to the Manor…

Lucius carried the ugly Muggle weapons (two pistols and a rifle) and a torchlight, grimacing slightly at having to use the latter. There had been no time to fetch candles. He moved much more slowly now, in a laboured, loping gait, keenly aware that the right side of his body was growing numb. Little splatters of black had crept into his vision, the precursors of a faint. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, hoping that the pain would jar him into refocussing. The damnable Inferi poison was spreading fast now.

He smelled the smoke long before he even reached the dungeons to check on Narcissa. It travelled quickly through the sealed house. Lucius was well aware of how resourceful Hermione Granger could be, but had certainly not expected her to have lasted long enough to light a fire!

But more to the point, what had the little Mudblood done to his wife?

He made his way to the dungeons as quickly as he could, breathing harshly as he ran. Enraged at the girl's audacity, he slid open the bolts to the door and wrenched it open. He entered the cell, by now used to the decaying human matter than formed a sludgy layer over the stone floor. He stepped carefully, unable to see much in the thick smoke. The beam of the Muggle torch eventually revealed a small fire smouldering in a corner of the dungeon. The girl must have been desperate to light it, for the lack of ventilation in the room meant that she risked suffocating herself.

But _where_ was she? Where was the Mudblood? Was it too much to hope that she had already succumbed to Narcissa?

Ignoring the cumbersome rifle, Lucius brandished the Mudblood's handgun. Despite having seen such weapons fired, he had never taken the time to determine how he might use one. The gun was heavy, but intuitively, there was a trigger and he assumed one pulled it in order to release the stored projectile. Lucius pointed the gun in the direction of the torch beam. In his haste, he made a less than systematic survey of the cell.

He located his wife, not by sight initially, but by sound. There were muffled growls and yips. She was tethered to a wall, trussed up in several meters of chain and muzzled by a bag that had been wrapped over her head and tied in place by the straps.

Lucius staggered forward towards his wife, only narrowly missing the small figure that rushed at him from the smoky darkness, attempting to slash him with a shard of glass. The Mudblood came again, this time the angle of the attack was odd and unexpected. She swung something small and dark at him, hitting him hard in the jaw. The blow was enough to unbalance him. He twisted, slid in the slimy muck on the ground and fell painfully to one knee. Lucius raised the gun to shoot at her, but pulling on the trigger did not work. The gun was locked, somehow.

Granger kicked him in the chest, stealing all the air from him. Lucius collapsed, wheezing. Frothy, blood-specked spittle bubbled from his mouth, telling of the fluid that had been building up in his lungs. He felt like he was drowning. The torch was plucked from the ground and she shone it at his face, momentarily blinding him. Lucius held up a forearm to shield his eyes.

"These are our guns," she said, in a voice that seemed decades older than the one he remembered. Or perhaps it was just the effect of smoke inhalation. "Where is Draco?"

"Beyond your influence now," Lucius rasped. He began to cough.

"Wrong answer," she replied. Hermione Granger stared down at him for a moment before raising something in her hands and bringing it down upon his head.

It was a boot. The Mudblood had felled him with a sodding _shoe_.

* * *

Hermione tipped a glass of water over the side of Lucius Malfoy's face. He came to, sputtering. She saw his arms move, his hands attempted to come up to cover his head, but he was currently hogtied on the dungeon floor with about twelve meters of braided, curtain ties.

She lifted his head so he could look at her. Hermione knew he was in a great deal of pain. She'd already examined the sticky, poorly sutured bite wound on his shoulder. Lucius Malfoy was knocking on death's door. She'd love to hasten the process, but first, she needed some answers. After an hour of scouring the house for Draco, she was no closer to finding him and was positively frantic with worry.

"You know how they say there's always a small percentage of the population that will be immune to a viral epidemic? Funny how they never talk about the percentage of people who turn stark raving mad at the same time."

He said nothing, merely sneered at her. Using her foot, Hermione flipped him over so he was able to speak to her without lifting his head.

"When were you bitten?" she asked, apparently surprising him with the question. At first, it looked like he was not inclined to answer, but then it came.

"Three weeks ago."

"Which means you've had Re-Gen administered since. Most people are dead within forty-eight hours of a zombie bite," she informed. "The Ministry's been dropping single doses of Re-Gen as far and wide as we can manage. Mostly over London. Where did you acquire yours?"

"There was…a family," he wheezed out. "They had travelled from London. I found them in the woods, not far from the village."

Hermione thought of the body of the little girl. "You took them in. They saw that you'd been bitten. They gave you their supply of Re-Gen. And then you slaughtered them to feed your pet zombie. Is that about right? You've been luring people here with the promise of safety. I've counted about twenty-two corpses in this room, more or less. Did you kill them all?

"Some were already dying when I happened upon them."

" _I wasn't_ ," she said, her voice flat. "Why do you need so many bodies to feed one zombie?"

He did not reply.

Hermione pressed her foot down against Lucius' injured shoulder. He cried out. "Were is Draco?"

"You are not fit to even be his whore," Lucius spat, his face contorted with rage. "Mudblood filth. You are a travesty, you are—"

"Losing patience," Hermione interjected. The caked blood on her skin was starling to crumble and peel off in little flakes. "What is it with all you blood-obsessed bigots? You're all so damned unoriginal." She walked across the room to the struggling figure of the former Narcissa Malfoy and placed Draco's handgun against the zombie's bag-covered head. "I'm going to count to five, Mr Malfoy. If you don't tell me where your son is, I'm going to blow his mother's decomposing brains all over the floor. I doubt you'll even notice the mess, given the state of the place..."

It was remarkable how much Lucius _cared_. He looked positively terrified for the creature. "Please….please do not harm her."

Hermione looked at the broken, filthy man who had tried to kill her and her loved ones when she'd been a child, who had been part of the assortment of bogeyman that terrorised Muggles and mixed-blood families who deigned to set a foot in his world. He was a murderer and Pureblood supremacist. Perhaps some of his current zealotry was the result of his brain slowly being cooked inside his skull, but there was enough recognisable vintage Lucius there to obliterate any possible sympathy. Not even being Draco's father protected him right now. Hermione was extremely tempted to explain to Lucius that there was no 'her' any more. This was not Narcissa, but Lucius' insanity was helping rather than hindering, at the moment.

"I don't want to kill Draco's mother, so tell me where he is," Hermione demanded, touching her gun to the creature's head. At the prodding, it began to thrash with renewed vigour, in its chains.

"You must listen to me…" Lucius implored, looking at her intently. This was probably the first time Lucius Malfoy had ever addressed her as if he actually had something he wanted to say to her, rather than because she was in his way. "We both want the same thing for my son."

Hermione had had enough. She walked over to the man and bent over him.

"No, _you_ listen to _me_ , you crazy, son of a bitch. You are in no state to make decisions on behalf of anyone," Hermione hissed. "Look at you! You're delirious! You've been murdering whole families to feed a God damned zombie. Some of those people even helped extend your worthless life! Your son needs us like he needs a broken leg. Draco is just about the most capable, ruthless individual I know and believe me, Lucius…" She pulled on his hair so that their faces were inches apart. "I've been out there, beyond the protection and comforts of this house and I've met people who would have used you for live zombie feed the moment you got bit. Don't you dare play the martyr with me! Both Draco and I have endured as much as anyone." She dropped his head. "You're embarrassing yourself if you think your son needs _you_ , of all things." She let the full measure of her revulsion seep into her voice.

The response, when it came a minute later, was barely audible. "He's in the last room in the attic corridor. You will also find the portkey that Draco had been seeking. It is called the Chavín Mirror."

"Did you hurt him?" Hermione asked, her voice tight.

"No. He is merely unconscious."

"Tell me about this portkey."

Lucius tried to turn his head to a less uncomfortable position, groaning in pain. "Are you going to release me?"

"No. Keep talking."

He sighed, swallowed. "The Mirror is an ancient, magical artefact. One of the first portkeys to be fashioned, if the dealer I purchased it from is to be believed… Like a wand, it remains inert until charged with sufficient magical energy, after which it will lie dormant until activated. When the portal is opened, it will permit one person to pass through to an unWarded destination of their choosing. _Unus tantum. Una tantum_ …"

"Only one, only once," Hermione translated. "Are you saying that it will function just the one time and for only one person?"

"Yes."

"That's why you've been stockpiling dead people," Hermione surmised. "They were to keep your wife well fed in the event you manage to pass through the portal. Why didn't it work? You wouldn't still be here if it had."

"The original enchantments involved sacrificial victims who volunteered to die. They did not need to be compelled. I thought…I thought that I could circumvent that aspect of the spell by sacrificing life that was…surplus to requirement."

Hermione wanted to shoot him. She could have, so very easily. Point and fire and Draco need never know that it was not in self-defence. The man was already dying, besides. But a bullet to the head was a far more humane death than the likes of Lucius Malfoy deserved.

"Does Draco know about the blood price required to activate this portkey?" she asked, attempting to keep the tremor from her voice.

"He does now."

She shut her eyes. Draco had promised her a way home, but not at such a cost. The portkey was a dead end. But their trip had not been for nothing. Enough had happened here at the Manor to awaken Hermione from her damaged mental state. She knew what she had to do, and better yet, what she _could_ do.

* * *

There was a long list of pretty sights to be seen in a world that could be breathtaking, given the right vantage point. Hermione added Draco Malfoy Opening His Eyes to Look at Her to the list.

His head was pillowed in her lap. At first, there was the befuddlement of the newly awakened. Then, there was a beautiful lightness in that silver gaze that made her bite her lip to keep from tearing up. Peace was something she couldn't give either of them, not in the current world. Too soon, however, memory intruded and he sat up, despite her insistence to take it slow. There was already swelling and a bruise forming at his temple.

Now, his gaze was all business. One hand grabbed her by the arm, almost too tightly, while a much gentler hand settled at her cheek. His eyes raked across her face, a frown topping of an expression of concerned incredulity. Belatedly, Hermione realised what she must look like. Other than her eyelids, most of her skin and clothing was covered in blood. It looked like she's been swimming through a river of the stuff. Her hair was black-red, slicked back and reeked of smoke. Another bath was severely overdue.

She looked at him with large, brown eyes as her cold, blood-caked hands clasped his. "Appearances are deceiving. I'm fine, really," she reassured him. "How are you feeling?"

He ignored the question and instead frowned as he touched her hair, which had gone rather stiff.

"It's not my blood, Draco."

"I should hope not," he said. "You'd be dead by now if it was. I gather you've encountered my father? Where is he?

"I've locked your father in the dungeons, which, coincidentally, is also where he put me earlier today."

"Is he safely contained?"

"Yes."

"Damn him." Draco swore. He rose to his feet, not allowing Hermione to assist him. She tried to insist that he was in no state to be carrying a weapon, but Draco brooked no argument as he took his rifle from her. "He's not stable."

"He's certifiably _insane_ ," Hermione corrected. "He's been luring and killing Muggles in order to jumpstart that damned portkey!"

At this, they both turned to look at the Chavín Mirror, so unassuming and benign, resting on its perch in the middle of the blood-stained, attic floor.

"After my bath this morning, I went down into the dungeons because I thought I heard a woman crying. Only…"

Draco had walked over to the Mirror and kneeled, peering closely at it. Hermione saw that he was being very careful not to touch the thing.

"It's alright, you can tell me. My mother is dead, isn't she?" he asked, almost dispassionate.

"Yes."

Hermione was unsure how to proceed. His parents had come back from beyond the grave and he'd lost them again, all on the same day. He had to be feeling…something. She walked up to him and spoke only after she had succeeded in swallowing the lump in her throat. "Do you know how this thing works?"

Draco had removed his jacket so he could use the garment to handle the mirror as he turned it over. There was an inscription on the back, looking relatively new in comparison to the Mirror's age. It was the Latin phrase Lucius had spoken to her— _Unus tantum. Una tantum_

"More or less."

"Then you knew it was only ever going to be a one-way trip just for one person?"

He didn't answer her and that was answer enough. "What does it matter now?" he asked.

Hermione was furious. "Even if we did manage to activate the blasted thing _without_ sacrificing some nubile, young virgin, and even if you managed to send me home, then what? What happens to you?"

He stood and suddenly he was two heads taller and looking down his nose at her. There was such hostility in his gaze that she had trouble believing it was directed at her. It'd been a while since he'd tried this trick. Remarkable how she could _still_ be afraid of him. How did you love something that could scare you? That didn't seem very healthy.

"Nothing happens to me," he enunciated.

"So, what? You're just going to sit out on your front porch and watch the mushroom cloud over London while having a cup of tea? What were you planning to do when the fallout hits?" Hermione realised she was being shrill, but her nerves were far too frayed to put up with Draco's intimidation, hidden agendas and evasiveness.

"Did you want to go home or not?" he whispered. He always got quieter when he got angrier.

Hermione, accordingly, got warier. "Yes! But—"

"Then that was my goal. _Is_ my goal. Nothing's changed."

"Are you joking? Everything's changed! We are not sacrificing anyone to get this portkey working!"

"There are other ways," he hissed.

"Not according to your father! He killed over twenty people in his misguided attempt to use that thing. I _saw_ the bodies. I crawled through them, Draco. There are dead _children_ down there!" And that was the end of her composure. She erupted into sobs, quickly spinning away so that he wouldn't witness her breakdown.

"Hermione-"

"You were never going to leave with me, were you? You were going to send me away from here, away from you."

He didn't deny it now. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it was killing you to keep fighting. I think it was killing you long before we even knew about Amarov or that the fleet existed. And…and I don't know how to keep you safe." In a rare show of real emotion, of frustration, he stuck his burn-scarred hand out at her, gesturing at her blood-soaked form. "Short of shackling you to me, _clearly_ I cannot manage to keep you from harm."

The look she gave him was raw. She wanted so much to hold him, but he would never allow it, not at the moment. "Draco, for Merlin's sake, it's not your job to keep me safe!"

"And yet it is all I have been trying to do since the Welwyn mission..."

It was the closest they'd come to talking about 'them'. Or rather, his feelings for her, whatever they might be. Hermione didn't know what to say. Her heart ached for him. She did not want this burden for Draco. They were at an impasse, standing a meter away from a portkey that could only transport one of them to safety. The cure had not yet been found, the bombs would fall over London in less than a month and downstairs…downstairs, there was still the matter of Lucius and Narcissa.

"Did he hurt you?" he asked now, his voice neutral once more. He used his thumb and her earlier tears to wipe a clean streak across the blood that covered one cheek.

Hermione caught his hand and held it. She had to tell him. "I'm fine. But he's not in the best shape. Draco, he's been bitten."

If the news of his father's terminal illness fazed him, it didn't show. "How long ago?"

She let him lead her to door and together, they exited into the narrow corridor. Draco first, followed by Hermione. "About three weeks. He's been surviving on Re-Gen, but he's much too far gone for another dose now."

"And my mother?"

How did one go about explaining Narcissa? Hermione hated to be the one to have to do it. "She turned some time ago, it seems. I don't know exactly how your father got bitten, but I think it's a fair guess that it was because he's been keeping your mother downstairs in the dungeons."

"And feeding her the bodies of the people he killed in the attic," Draco concluded.

"I think he led you here today because he wants you to be the one who uses the portkey," Hermione added.

"Yes, well my father does not always get what he wants," Draco said, and Hermione heard the history and layers of pain in that sentence.

It was going to be a very long week at the Manor.


	45. The Necessary Evils

Draco dragged a dining room chair over to the bathtub, turned it around and straddled it. His damp shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he wore a chest holster containing a pistol. The front of his shirt and trousers was soaked.

The bathroom floor looked like a battle zone. There was water everywhere. Strewn across the floor was the clothing that Lucius had previously worn and clumps of matted hair that Draco had cut from his father's head.

The elder Malfoy sat in the soapy water, sullen and silent, bony knees drawn up, hands lying limply by his side, under the water. He stared at nothing at all, so still he might have been a statue. The fever had dissipated. However, the bite at his shoulder was not going to improve. It was purple, the centre of the wound weeping and sticky. The entire right side of his body had taken on an outwardly creeping, purple tinge. Apparently, Narcissa had taken a fair sized chunk out of him. This was the third bath in an hour and the first tub of water that had so far not turned murky within minutes of Lucius stepping into it.

"If you're not going to clean yourself, I'm going to come over there and do it for you," Draco threatened.

"My presentation is of little importance considering I am soon to die," came the dramatic reply. "I don't see the point of this."

"Until that time comes, you are still Lord of this Manor and I will not have you looking and smelling like a homeless vagabond in your own house."

Lucius's bloodshot eyes narrowed. "Does it please you to see me brought so low, I wonder?"

Draco left the room, slamming the door behind him. He only just missed the look of regret on Lucius' face.

* * *

Several days later, Hermione was in the library, laying out and cleaning their guns. She looked up when Draco strode in. He began rummaged through their supplies.

"How's it going down there?"

"Slowly."

She nodded. "The medication you gave him brought his fever down, but all the antibiotics in the world is not going to stop the sepsis. All you can do now is make him comfortable."

Draco stopped to stare at her. "You make it sound like I don't know he's dying. I have medical training. Believe me, _I know_."

"I know you know," she placated, aware of Draco's dark mood. "I'm just—"

"Stating the obvious," he interjected. He gave up trying to find whatever it was he was looking for in the bag.

Hermione put down her oily rag and walked up to him, laying a hand on his arm. "Sometimes, the obvious needs stating because talking about it helps us deal with difficult truths."

He gave her a withering look. "When we first arrived here, you were barely able to walk these halls without flinching at the darkness. Now, you think you're equipped to counsel me about my feelings?"

"Not quite," she said, raising her chin. "The counselling would only work if you admitted you had feelings in the first place. Talk to me about this! You haven't said two words about your parents since we found out there're here."

He glowered at her. "My parents are _gone_. My mother is a walking corpse, soon to be put out of her misery. My father is not much better. There is nothing to talk about. Your parents, on the other hand, are alive and well on the other side of the world, wondering what has become of their only child."

She had not been prepared for the turn in conversation. "What's any of this got to go with my parents?"

"Are you going to them or not?" He was referring to the portkey.

"No! I mean, yes, it's what I wanted, but no way in hell I'm going anywhere without you!"

He walked into her. She walked backwards, nearly tripping over furniture. "I want you away from me," he seethed. "I want to not have to think about you, to not be distracted by the myriad horrors that can befall you at any moment. You are like an open wound that I cannot heal, an illness I cannot recover from. You make me weak. I _cannot_ be weak in this place, Granger. It will get us both killed."

Hermione was appalled. Mostly she was appalled at herself because of how oblivious she had been to Draco's motivations, which were fed by his fears. She had been so self-absorbed in her own mental anguish that she hadn't been able to see that he'd been suffering in his own, quiet, stoic way.

Their fears were the same.

She had left the fleet with him because she was terrified of enduring more loss and of failing the people who depended on her. Draco had taken her away from those realities, giving her mind the space to recover. And he now wanted to send her further away, to protect her, and ironically, to protect himself from losing her.

 _"You're not falling to pieces,"_ she had said to him, the week before they left the fleet.

_"That doesn't mean I haven't got a breaking point. If I do, I'm not keen to know what it would take."_

Merlin, _she_ was his breaking point. Everything Richards had suggested that she do to Draco, to get him to cooperate with Project Christmas, had actually eventuated. Richards had wanted Hermione to become Draco's Achilles' Heel.

_"…give him a weakness. Something unexpected to care about besides himself. Internal conflict can be a powerful catalyst for change."_

The epiphany felt like a punch to the stomach. It killed her to know that her return to mental clarity (and to her responsibilities) was going to decimate him.

Draco saw the change in her expression and the dawning realisation in her eyes. "You see now?" he asked, his voice tender. "You will go home, yes?"

"No."

"There is no other safer place!" he said. "Grimmauld Place would have already been evacuated by Blaise. London is a dead zone. Australia remains one of the few countries that have managed their outbreak such that their citizens can live some semblance of a normal life. Isn't that what you want?"

A tear slid down her cheek. How could it be that she felt lighter than she'd felt in months, while at the same time, the weight of the world had come crashing back down? She looked up at him, "Draco, I cannot. I can't run away from this. I… We have to go back to the fleet and resume our work. You said you would come back with me if or when I was ready, remember? I'm ready."

He looked like she'd slapped him. "I see your death everywhere I look. Doesn't that matter to you?"

Hermione thought of the warning that Padma had given her in her recent nightmares.

_"Everyone you love is going to die. And at the end, you'll wish you had, too…"_

How could he even ask such a thing? But she knew the real answer he was seeking. The kind that broke hearts.

"Of course it matters!" she insisted. But then here was the rub. Here was the part of her that had helped Harry defeat Voldemort. That sometimes also made Harry stare at her as if she were an alien. The same part of her that made men like Scrimgeour and Barnaby Richards trust her. "But I have to help if I can. And I _can_ be of help to the people who are trying to make a difference. That have died trying to make a difference. _That_ is more important. More important than me."

 _"Many more like me,"_ she'd said to him, just after he saved her life at Welwyn.

_"No. None quite like you, Mudblood."_

Hermione saw the doors fall shut behind his eyes and felt cold seep into her bones. Draco Malfoy didn't unravel like normal people. None of it leaked out, nor did he lash out at her. He folded in on himself until there was nothing left but a hard shell. He stepped around her and picked up the bag he had discarded, walking out the door with it.

It was all Hermione could do to stop herself from running after him, grabbing hold of his hand to stop him, and take back everything she'd just said.

* * *

The next two days were spent in silence. They ate in silence, read in silence, endured the night time crackling of the log fire in silence before one of them finally fell asleep. During the day, Draco spent most of his time with his father. He had even taken Lucius to see Narcissa. Hermione had no idea what transpired between father and son, and was ignored when she asked for details.

Eventually, she was concerned enough to sneak down to the dungeons just before dawn, to see Lucius herself.

* * *

Draco was awake, though he did not advertise this fact. His eyes opened as soon as the library door closed behind Hermione. This had not been a night for peaceful slumber, not for either of them it seemed.

He glanced at the clock in the far corner. It was almost time.

* * *

The elder Malfoy was kept in a clean cell at the opposite end of the dungeons, far away from the slaughterhouse that contained Narcissa. Hermione knew it had been a difficult task, but Draco had succeeded in bringing his father back to a facsimile of health and sanity. There was some colour in his cheeks. The wound at his shoulder, visible through the neck hole of one of Draco's jumpers, sported a clean bandage. He didn't reek, was clean shaven, and his hair had been cut to a respectable length. He looked lucid, docile. Handsome, even.

Hermione took no chances.

"Miss Granger," Lucius greeted. He'd been lying in bed when she entered, but had not been asleep. "Come to finish me off before the main event?"

Hermione left the door open behind her, her hand on her gun. The question he posed was odd, so she replied with one of her own. "That would be doing you a favour, wouldn't it?"

He smiled, and she noted there was no salvaging what had probably been a very impressive set of teeth, once upon a time. He sat up, wincing as he moved. While he looked superficially better, he was close to the end. She knew what the Infection did to your insides once it took root. Re-Gen staved it off, but it would not outlast the virus.

"If you have come to kill me, I urge you to reconsider."

"Why?" she humoured him.

"Because I'm going to activate that portkey so my foolish son can send you back to this wondrous floating city he has told me all about." Lucius cocked his head to the side. "That is what you desire, isn't it? To return to your people?"

She was stunned. And not just because Draco had apparently been paying attention to everything she'd said to him. "You're going to sacrifice yourself?"

He nodded. "Unfortunately the offering cannot be suicide, so Draco will do the honours."

Hermione was horrified. "You cannot possibly ask that of him!"

"Ask?" Lucius laughed, or rather coughed. "My dear, he offered."

"You don't need to die in order for that blasted portkey to work and I will not have Draco murdering his own father!"

"At this stage, what you want is quite beside the point, Miss Granger. It seems, even in my death, that I may be of use to my son." Here, a series of hacking coughs shook Lucius' body. Hermione could hear the fluid rattling in his chest. He reached up to a stool, to grab a glass of water that had been placed there. After several long swallows, he continued, "Though it seems we are in agreement about his intended use of the portkey. Ah, what a waste. I would much rather he be sent away instead of you. But he will not be swayed. Not by me. Not by you. What you _do_ have control over is the decision to walk through that portal, when the time comes."

"I'm not leaving him here."

Lucius leaned back against his bedding and regarded her with contempt. "Then you contradict your own wishes and you show what little respect you have for Draco's." Something like wistfulness crossed Lucius's face. "It is such folly."

Hermione blinked. "What is?"

"Love. A terrible, debilitating thing," he mused. "The Dark Lord was so repelled by the prospect of love _and_ death, both of which he regarded to be inherently mortal afflictions, that he rendered himself immune when he created his Horcruxes."

"Those Horcruxes are what killed him in the end," Hermione reminded.

Lucius shrugged. "There's always a trade-off in the quest for great power."

"You're not immune. You cared very much for your wife." She eyed him critically. "Enough to murder for her. And you care for you son, it appears."

"I only want what is best for him."

"What you _think_ is best," she corrected.

"It doesn't matter now," Lucius said, with weary resignation. "He is far past listening to my counsel… Tell me, Miss Granger, do you love him?"

She was not discussing her romantic feelings for Draco with his murdering psychopath of a father. Not that Lucius needed verbal confirmation. He simply looked at her face. "It's an affliction for him, you realise? You harm him."

"It doesn't need to be a weakness."

"No, but for men like us, it is. He now seeks to return you to your fleet, so that you can carry out your Muggle science and put an end to this wretched plague. I hope you succeed."

"And if I go, what will Draco do?"

"My son will do what he does best, Miss Granger." Lucius smiled. "He will survive. And he will have a fair chance at it, without you to burden him. As you said yourself, he is capable and ruthless. I don't suppose you know what time it is?"

"I'm not returning to the fleet without him. We'll find some other way." She wasn't wearing a watch, but the grandfather clock in the library kept good time. "It's probably almost six, now."

"Ah, well then." Lucius looked beyond her, to the doorway. Hermione knew Draco was standing behind her even before she turned around. She had no idea how much of the conversation he had overheard.

She stepped aside as Draco entered the cell. Hermione looked between the two men, confusion soon giving way to horror. "You cannot seriously be considering this?" She moved to stand in front of Lucius, blocking Draco's access to him. "I won't allow it!"

It took effort not to wilt under the force of Draco's glare. He didn't make any attempt to touch her, but his words might as well have flayed her. "I do not recall asking you to allow anything."

"No…" she pleaded. Not because she cared about Lucius, but because she was afraid of what his death, _this_ death, was going to do to his son. She spun around to face Lucius, hoping that perhaps he would change his mind, but Draco's hand clamped around her arm before she could speak to the elder Malfoy.

He hauled her to him. "Granger," he hissed into her ear, "Stop this. Do not make it any more difficult for him than it already must be." Draco released her and she sagged against a cell wall, watching helplessly as he picked up the frail form of his father and carried him out of the cell.

Hermione stood there for a few minutes, willing warmth back into her body. And then she put her gun away, sprinted out of the dungeons and headed up to the attic.

* * *

Father and son had been preparing for the ritual, it seemed. They exuded an almost enviable calmness. How could it seem like _she_ was the one making an obscene intrusion?

Draco had laid down several layers of sheets on the attic floor. Upon this, Lucius now knelt, trembling from even this minor exertion. Before him was the Chavín Mirror, casting a pale, golden glow across his face. Draco stood in the corner of the room, holding a large kitchen knife in his hands. He caught Hermione's eye, sending her a silent warning not to interfere.

Lucius turned to look at her, audibly wheezing. His lips were blue. "Miss Granger…be at ease. This is a mercy. Let…let there be some utility in my death."

She ignored him and instead directed her condemnation at Draco. "This is murder dressed up as euthanasia." Her words were unkind, but she was not feeling particularly benevolent at the moment.

Draco walked towards her. He looked so incredibly menacing that Hermione had trouble reconciling the knife-wielding man standing before her, with the one who jumped into zombie-infested pits to save little children.

"I do remember your aversion to euthanasia," he drawled. "You had trouble sending off poor Jason Lam even as he was being torn to pieces. Fortuitously for Mr Lam, I was there to end his agony." Very carefully, he used the dull side of the blade to turn her face away. "Look away, Hermione. This may distress you."

She grabbed the handle of the knife, refusing to be cowed. "Don't you dare do this because of me!"

"Don't be so presumptuous. It's not just for you. We will have a working portkey at the end of it, which will mean guaranteed Transport for one of us. My father is dead either way."

Hermione realised she was dealing with pure Slytherin practicality now. Sentiment had been filtered out, leaving tangible solutions behind. But if there were straws to be grasped, she would grasp at them.

"You said there might be another way!"

"Probably, but we do not have time to trial other options, do we?"

"Let _me_ do it, then." Her voice broke. "He's your father. It can't be you."

"No." And there was nothing as aggressively final as that single word.

She fled from the room. She ran out of the house, past the gazebo and didn't stop until she reached the lake, whereupon she collapsed to her knees. The first winter snow was falling over Wiltshire. Soft, white flakes floated about her in a silence that was so pristine, she felt like the entire world had been preserved in some kind of giant snow globe.

Hermione didn't know what she ought to have been more ashamed of, that she thought she _should_ have stayed to watch Draco kill his father, that she _didn't_ stay, or the fact that deep down, she knew Draco had once again committed a necessary evil. Did she even bother to ask what had become of Amarov and Honoria, or how many of Amarov's people had died in the fleet revolt? No. She hadn't wanted to know. Easier to leave it to Draco. People like her used people like him when there was no black and white to hold on to, just shades of grey.

Maybe Amarov had been correct? Maybe survival in times like these required more than peacetime morals? Maybe the meek did not have what it took to inherit the earth…


	46. Prilgrimage

The Grimmauld Place headquarters was a big, empty, rambling house when there were just two people and a messenger owl to occupy it.

Harry found it depressing.

There was only so much conversation one could make—correction, _attempt_ to make—with Agent Barnaby Richards before you gave up and walked away. Harry knew the man was quite capable of speaking to people without yelling at them, but there was apparently something about Harry that ticked him off.

Richards' annoyance probably concerned Harry's stubborn insistence that someone remain behind in London to continue the search for their missing team members and keep the home fires burning. Everyone else had been moved to Taransay Island to join the refugee population that was being looked after by Ginny and the other Weasleys. Richards didn't agree with Harry's decision to stay, but this wasn't anything new for Harry. He was used to flying in the face of other people's perceived better judgement. Hell, he was used to _Hermione_.

After a dinner of tinned corn and tuna, Harry walked to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Even though he knew it was pointless, he had a good rummage through the pantry for Dr Kate McAllister's whiskey, but of course she had taken it with her to Taransay. There was no alcohol left at Grimmauld Place, not even a bottle of bad wine, which was a shame because Harry had been hoping for a splash of something a bit more fortifying than Scrimgeour's favourite Darjeeling.

The clanking of his teaspoon in the cup was annoyingly loud in the empty kitchen. The house needed more ambient noise. There were no scientists seated around the dining table, absentmindedly buttering toast as they debated findings. There was no Hermione, always thoughtful and busy and with a knowing look that said, "Oh, Harry.'' There was no worried, weary Scrimgeour, mild-mannered Neville and there was no Ginny, with her gentle resilience and inhuman patience.

Project Christmas was in tatters and the saddest part of it was that Harry didn't know why. No one could confirm what had happened to their missing friends. There were only suspicions and last known whereabouts.

Feeling morose, Harry made his tea. He strained the leaves, used up the last of their evaporated milk (hah, take that, Richards) and drank it. He had only just finished feeding their resident owl when the front of the house collapsed.

* * *

"Time and distance, my dear," Molly Weasley had said to her. "Some problems are like sharp stones. Too pointy to pick up. Best left alone, for the moment. They roll along with you, all hard edges and a bumpy trot. But after a time, they start to smooth out, worn down by the road. And _that's_ when you stop to handle them."

Molly had been referring to Ron, during one summer holidays when Hermione had been desperate enough to confide in the Weasley matriarch about the couple's relationship troubles.

If Ron had been a sharp stone, then Draco Malfoy was the whole damned quarry. Too much to handle. Impossible to pick up. Something to be explored and mapped so others would know where _not_ to tread.

Draco processed feelings differently to other people—he treated them like poisons to be absorbed and tolerated, rather than worked through. This meant that talking about it was the last thing he was inclined to do. Hovering would not help. He would not give in to the urge to unburden himself. There would not be a breakthrough, borne of inevitable weariness and Hermione's legendary perseverance, whereupon he'd sit down with her by the fire and talk until the sun came up.

No, nothing as easy as that.

The lake beside Manor was immensely peaceful and Hermione might have stayed there for a few hours if she didn't start losing feeling in her extremities. So she walked back to the Malfoy's grand house, apprehensive at the prospect of running into Draco, but hoping she would, at the same time. What did you say to someone who had just killed their father? What comfort could she provide him that he would accept?

Molly's advice still applied—Draco required space; vast quantities of it.

Hermione wanted to go back to the attic, in case he was still there. Maybe he needed her help with the portkey, or with the practical aspects of Lucius, post-demise? She doubted it. He would view it as meddling and unnecessary. Her intuition told her that her presence during this time would not be appreciated.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she entered the library and saw that he'd been there and left. There was a note written on a page torn from one of the library's books. This ought to have been a desecration, but the book had apparently been on Divination. In another time and place, Hermione might have smiled at this. Seeing his writing brought on a nostalgic pang. Over the months at Grimmauld Place, she must have read through dozens of pages of his meticulous recordings. His writing was terribly old-fashioned, almost as if from another era.

_Touch portkey to activate._

Dear God, _it worked_. The ancient portkey was alive. The ritual had been completed, which meant that Lucius was dead.

Hermione sat back heavily in a leather armchair, clutching the note. She looked down and read it again and again, as if Draco's thoughts were somehow discernible in those few words. It hurt that he didn't want her or need her at this time, especially when there seemed to be nothing else of a practical nature that she could do for him. Her eyes felt hot and itchy, but Hermione knew she had no call to indulge in her own grief. This was not her time to mourn and she would not chase after him to demand that he do so.

It was then that she noticed the small pile of food on the floor—all items that were not likely to spoil without refrigeration. He had taken bread, hard cheese, dried meats and fruit from the Manor portraits. It was all stacked beside a bookcase. There was something sad about the neat little pile. Whatever Draco currently felt towards her, he had not shirked the responsibilities he perceived for himself. She wished that he would let her return the favour.

Hermione got up and had a quick look through the other supplies they kept in the room, hoping for some clue as to his state of mind. Several weapons were gone, including a rifle, clothing and some ammunition.

And also _all_ the alcohol.

Oh dear.

* * *

The noise was deafening.

At first it was like a giant's yawn, amplified. This was followed by the crack and crash of the roof caving in, sliding down several storeys and taking out the entire front façade of the Grimmauld Place residence. Nothing was as loud and booming as Barnaby Richards' yelling, however.

"They've breached, Potter! Get your ass out of here!"

Wand in hand, Harry sprinted through the ground floor, past rooms where the ceiling was starting to crack under the immense weight of the collapsed upper floors. There was no time to send the owl to Taransay to get them to lower their wards to allow his Apparition. He'd have to get a message to them some other way. But he wasn't going anywhere without the Cowboy.

Richard's yelling had clearly been coming from the front of the house, from somewhere _inside_ the rubble. Thick dust hung in the air. It stung Harry's eyes and coated his throat, making him cough and sputter as he climbed over what looked like a combination of roof shingles and furniture from the upper floors.

"Richards!" he shouted. "Where are you?"

"Get out of here!" came the predictable reply, followed by a great deal of cursing. This was good, because Harry followed that sound, climbing over bricks and mortar until he found the Cowboy, buried up to his shoulders in crumbled chunks of roofing.

"Jesus Christ! Are you stupid or just deaf?" Richards barked. Blood was running into his eyes from a cut on his head.

Two additional details struck Harry. One was the stark, cold fresh air that was now blowing freely through the open house. It hit him in the face, so frigid that it was momentarily shocking to the system. The other was that this quickly turned into the stench of decay and death because beyond the collapsed front section, where the front door (and nothing else) still comically stood, were several hundred zombies.

There were so many of them it was impossible to see the street. Some of the fresher specimens were already clambering towards him. They had done exactly what Richards had feared—rushed at the wards simultaneously, bringing down the powerful enchantments and taking the roof along with it. Good thing, then, that the rest of the house's inhabitants had already been evacuated to Taransay. Chalk that down to Scrimgeour and the Cowboy's forward planning. There was nothing left in London for anyone still living. In three weeks, the bombs would fall, and then there really would be nothing _living_ left.

All that remained was Harry and Richards and their daily coastal search for Amarov's fleet.

"Where's your wand?" Harry demanded.

"Somewhere next to me. I can't reach it! Get out of here, kid!"

'Kid', he called him. Harry had gotten used to this, but it still chafed. He slapped a hand over Richards' shoulder.

Richards was well aware of what Harry was attempting to do. "It ain't gonna work! You'd need me to be clear of this mess first!"

If it didn't work, Harry risked splinching either or the both of them, or creating some hideous Harry-Richards-rock Chimera. But one did not tell Harry Potter than something was impossible and dangerous without Harry Potter at least attempting to do it once. Or twice.

He felt the spell take hold, felt it begin to wrap around him and Richards, and then start to falter as the enchantment had difficulty discerning where Richards ended and the rubble began. There was a sharp jolt, the air around them began to shimmer and Harry knew enough to end the spell before they got badly splinched.

Bits of wood, concrete and glass was still raining down. An enormous slab of cement sailed past, nearly taking off the top of Harry's head.

"They're coming!" Richards warned.

So they were. Harry blasted, incinerated, sliced, froze and exploded a dozen, two dozen, fifty….. He used his chainsaw hex and for a while, it rained red. The creatures tried to encircle them, but Harry would not allow it. If they got around him, he really would have to leave Richards or they would both die.

But suddenly, there was a lull.

It belatedly occurred to Harry that it wasn't just the humans in the house that had attracted the creatures. Many of the zombies ignored Harry and Richards altogether. They seemed to be stumbling through the rubble in a kind of euphoric daze, soaking up the released magical atmosphere emanating from the house. Some of them collapsed to the ground and were writhing around, like cats rolling in catnip.

Others were even more sinister. Harry saw one zombie drop to its knees in front of a broken portrait of Sirius and began to stroke the canvas, watching with curiosity as Sirius grimaced and tried to shrink away from the creature's pawing hands. Another group of zombies looked like they were attempting to collect souvenirs from amongst the debris, picking up random objects, feeling them, dropping them and picking up others. This was far too much cleverness for Harry to deal.

Like a beacon, Grimmauld Place's colourful assortment of wards and artefacts had drawn out the city's magical undead. They had all made some kind of unholy pilgrimage here, perhaps not understanding why, but knowing that if outside the house was pleasant, than _inside_ must be even better. The bastards had split the house open like an Easter egg and were now feasting on its spilled innards. Merlin, no wonder wizarding communities had not fared well during the outbreak. They were _zombie magnets_. It became less of a mystery now why Hogwarts had been overrun so quickly.

"Are you seeing this?" Harry whispered, he was simultaneously attempting to dig Richards out as quietly as possible, using Leviosa to shift the larger chunks of rock.

"Seeing, not quite believing," Richards grunted in response.

Harry carefully slid out an enormous metal beam from where it had almost punched a hole through Richard's rib cage. It looked like his collarbone was broken. The man had to be in a lot of pain. .

"You need to get to your wand, or else we're both dead," said Harry. "Which side is it on?"

"Left," Richards said, through gritted teeth. "You need to go." And the calm, almost gentle tone of Richard's voice made Harry stop and look at him. Ironic, how it took something like _this_ for Richards to quit yelling at Harry.

Several more large rocks were removed and Harry could now see the top of Richard's left forearm. "What's a few hundred undead to deal with when you're the saviour of the wizarding world?"

Richards chuckled. "You are _such_ a wanker."

"Oh hey, extra points for using 'wanker'. You're practically British now."

"Kick a wizard while he's down, why don't you.

Even if Richards could locate his wand, successful Apparition still required that he be free of the debris. Harry kept digging and levitating, moving sometimes three or four pieces of concrete in one go. They were doing well.

But now there was new trouble.

While the magical undead were distracted, the regular Muggle variety of zombie had no problems seeking out Harry and Richards. There were enough of them coming, attracted to the area by the sound of the collapsing house and the shrieks of the other creatures.

"Potter…" Richards said, giving him a grim, warning look.

Harry stood and began blasting, the force of his spells strong, his aim excellent. The pile of bodies on the street grew, causing a handy roadblock of rotting corpses. But all this new commotion had inevitably drawn the renewed attention of the wizarding horde.

There were just _so many_. They had now converged around Harry and Richards, where a wall of bodies was growing in size.

"Go!" Richards bellowed, as a zombie launched at him. Harry spun around to freeze it and was momentarily confused when the creature's head suddenly exploded.

This was not a usual side-effect of Petrificus.

More heads exploded. Some torsos, too. The sound of gunfire was deafening. Harry dropped to the ground on top of Richards, as bodies, blood and bullets rained over them. Merlin, there were even several explosions that shook the ground and caused yet more rubble to fall. Grenades. Someone was throwing _grenades_ out there. Several creatures had not been fatally hit and continued to crawl towards them. Harry easily picked these ones off.

After what felt like hours, but had probably been mere minutes, the gunfire stopped. The air was awash with smoke, dust and the nauseating smell of gunpowder and rotting flesh. Harry rolled onto his back. He heard the sound of shoes crunching over gravel and then a familiar face loomed over him.

The girls had always found Blaise Zabini easy on the eye. In that moment, Harry thought he was a damned beautiful sight. "My God! I don't where the hell you came from, Zabini, but thank you!"

"Hullo, Potter," said Harry's former classmate. "Is it just you here? I've been told to pick up an entire scientific team."

"Just me and Richards. You need to get him out. The others are at a refuge on Taransay Island."

As it happened, Richards was currently being extricated from the ground by one of the most enormous Muggle men Harry had ever seen. There were others, too. All looking slick, mean and military-like, except for Blaise, who was wearing jeans. They were loaded down with enough weapons to take over a small country. This was just as well because there were still more creatures ambling about. It was not safe out in the open.

Richards was in bad shape. The man really couldn't catch a break. He had _barely_ recovered from being shot in the chest, for goodness' sake. Harry noted that Blaise was eyeballing his wand with an almost lascivious expression. He did not seem to have one of his own.

"Might help things move along if you tell me what you're doing here," Harry said. He began swiping bits of zombie from his clothing and hair.

"Draco sent me."

Harry was stunned. He grabbed the front of Blaise' jacket, this quick movement causing a small dust cloud to plume into the air. "Is Hermione with him? Is she alright? What about Padma and Wallen? You've come from the fleet, then?"

Blaise didn't take kindly to being manhandled. He looked down pointedly at Harry's hand, bunched tightly around the front of his jacket. "Get your hands off me, Potter."

Harry released Blaise, narrowing his eyes at him. "Where's your wand?"

"We must go!" said the extremely large man who had his arm around Richards, propping him up. "There is more coming."

Indeed there were. Harry could hear the distant groans, slowly growing louder.

"My wand, alas, is somewhere at the bottom of the Bristol Channel, along with almost a thousand other wands," Blaise belatedly informed.

"Bloody hell. I sense a tale of much woe and misery," Harry said, reading in between the lines.

"You don't know the half of it." The two men walked back out into the street, stepping over the rubble as they went. "We'll fill you in when we get back." He stared at Harry's wand once more. "Seeing as you don't know the fleet's location, I'll have to Apparate us in groups. Unless you think driving back to the wharf and catching boat is a better option? Because that's how we got here."

Harry didn't like relinquishing his wand, but he had little choice in the matter. He glanced down at the gun Zabini was holding. "Trade you."

Blaise handed over his weapon in exchange for Harry's wand. As soon as he touched it, he nearly buckled over.

Harry caught him, frowning. "Zabini, what the hell?"

"It's…fine. I'm—it's been a while, is all. Damn it, Potter, your wand is like a punch to the chest!" Blaise said this in an accusing tone. He straightened up and sucked in a deep breath. "I'll take the injured man by himself first."

"Quickly, they are coming!" warned the giant. He deposited Richards into Blaise's care, before walking further down the street and picking off the approaching zombies with his rifle.

Harry ran through to the back of the house to grab the messenger owl in its large cage. He contemplated carrying it, but decided that was silly. So he opened the cage instead and released the bird. "Find me, if you can," he whispered.

The barn owl hooted once and flew off.

Blaise gave them a jaunty salute. "I'll be back." He Apparated away with Richards, and as promised, returned several minutes later. But in that time, nearly all the men in Blaise's rescue team had begun to fire their weapons. The street was swarming with zombies. Blaise took two men with him, returned, took another three, and then another three after that.

There were six men left, including Harry and the giant.

They were being herded further down the street. The big man was shouting orders in what sounded like Russian. He translated, for Harry's benefit. "I tell them not to lose our position. If we move from here, then Zabini come back right on top of zombies, yes?"

"Yes," Harry agreed with that risk assessment. "We don't want that."

But it was impossible _not_ to move, given the size of the horde they were dealing with. Harry and the men found themselves steadily being driven down to the opposite end of the street by the encroaching undead. With each Apparition, they had lost more firepower. Harry was not quite as good a shot with the gun as he was with his wand. He had not had much practice. Luckily, his companions had no such limitations.

Blaise reappeared, staggered towards the men and took four back with him. By now, he looked like he was about to collapse, no doubt due to a combination of the Apparition workload and possibly also the distance he was travelling. Harry had no idea where Blaise had come from.

Things were dire. Harry stood shoulder to shoulder with the big man (or shoulder to arm, more like it). The giant threw a grenade into the back of the horde. It exploded, causing a spray that was quite literally, _pink_. The thing about zombies was that even missing limbs or in some cases, half a torso, they would still continue to advance.

Harry's gun was empty. The big man threw him a new clip. Harry had barely worked out how to insert it when the closest zombie leapt at him. He kicked it off and was pulled down to the ground by another. Harry rolled it over, straddled the creature and shot it in its snarling face.

Blaise Apparated into the clearing for the final run. Such was the wizard's fatigue that he fell to one knee. Harry was only meters away when the unthinkable happened.

The zombie in the red hoodie had climbed over the rubble, above Blaise. It was scrabbling through what had once been the second storey of the house. Harry saw it, _saw_ what was about to unfold and called out a warning, shooting at the creature as he did so.

Damn it all! He wasn't a good enough shot, managing to hit the thing everywhere but in the head. The creature dropped onto Blaise, tearing into the side of his neck even as Blaise fired off a spell that blew a hole clean through the creature's abdomen. Grey-brown intestines streamed out, but this didn't stop the zombie from continuing to rip chunks out of Blaise, while its hands clawed at Harry's wand in Blaise's hand.

A bullet slammed into the creature's forehead. Harry turned to see the big man lower his rifle. They both hurried over to Blaise, who was doing his best to hold the side of his neck together.

"Zabini, hang on!" Harry pulled off his jacket and held it tightly against the wound. Blood was spurting out between Blaise's fingers. Harry picked up his wand, wracking his brain for a suitable spell.

"You need to leave," Blaise wheezed. "Go with Anatoli…"

"No way!" Harry countered. He looked at the man called Anatoli. "I'm going to freeze him so we can levitate—

Blaise gripped Harry's hands hand enough to bruise. "Potter. Get to the wharf. Take…the boat. _Do not…die here_. The fleet needs magic."

Harry felt what he assumed was Anatoli's hand on the back of his shirt. He shrugged it off.

"We can fix this," Harry insisted. He cast suturing spells, even though this was never to be done in the event of major, internal injuries, unless performed by a trained Medimagic practitioner. Harry would have given anything to have Padma there right then. He didn't know if they could move Blaise, or _how_ to move him without making things worse.

The bleeding did not stop and Blaise was beginning to sputter. Anatoli had resumed shooting again.

"We go now!" shouted Anatoli.

"You got Richards out, we'll get you out!" Harry told Blaise.

"Harry…" Blaise grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him close. "Tell Draco. And G—Granger. They're…they're at Malfoy Manor. Get them back. Give Henry to them. Promise me…"

Harry nodded wildly. "I promise."

Anatoli approached, crouching down beside Blaise. "I am sorry, Zabini."

Blaise's voice was barely audible. He looked at Anatoli. "Get Harry Potter back to the fleet."

Harry was startled when Anatoli plucked the gun from Harry's grasp and placed it in Blaise's hand. He was practically dragged away by the big man. They were almost at the end of the street when the gun shot sounded. Harry twisted free from Anatoli's grip, turning around to look. Blaise's body was distracting some of the horde, but there were still plenty of them coming.

"Where's your boat?" Harry called out, as they ran down the street.

"Cah-nar-ree Wharf," replied Anatoli, apparently having trouble with the name.

Harry knew the location. He careened into Anatoli, instantly Apparating them to the wharf. Unfortunately, they were nowhere near where the boat was moored, so Anatoli had to point out landmarks in the distance, and Harry tried again. This time, he placed them right at the jetty. There were a few creatures milling about, but they were too far away to be a threat.

The two men boarded the cruiser. Anatoli started the engine and took them out back out into open water. They didn't speak again until after Harry had emerged from the luxurious bathroom below deck, having washed both Richards' and Blaise's blood off his hands. He joined Anatoli beside the wheel, staring out at the sea beyond the windows. It was Harry's fault this had happened. He didn't quite know how to process this fact yet, but it would come to him. He wished very much that he was going to Ginny, instead of to this mysterious fleet.

"Thank you for what you did."

Anatoli nodded. Harry gathered that the large Russian was a man of few words. He might have looked like he was carved from marble, but he was not unaffected by Blaise's passing.

"I'm sorry about Blaise," Harry added, and he truly was. "Were you close?" Harry wondered if he had been close to Zabini. Did going to school together qualify?

"Everyone is close now," came the cryptic response.

They were silent for a long while. Harry wanted to ask about the fleet, but decided to wait. There was another pertinent question.

"Who is Henry?"

Anatoli sighed. It was an enormous sound from an enormous man. "Henry Miles Greengrass _Zabini_."

Harry closed his eyes, cursing under his breath. Blaise's dying words had been to give care of his child over to Draco and Hermione.

Now, obviously there was a hell of a story behind that.


	47. Insight

Hermione didn't see Draco for the next day and a half. Technically, this wasn't that hard to accomplish given the size of the Manor, but it was very cold and she worried about where he'd been sleeping.

There were reassuring signs of him around the house, though—portraits moved, more sheets missing from the bathroom and his boot-prints over the dusty foyer floor. She walked up to the attic, bracing herself for what she would see when she pushed upon the door.

The room was empty, save for the Chavin Mirror. The floor held no discernible new stains and the drop sheets were gone. Hermione crouched down to inspect the artefact. As soon as her hand came within a meter of it, the reflective portion transformed. It was no longer dull, but alive and rippling. It looked like the sparkling surface of a pond made from liquid crystal. The Mirror gave off a soft sound that was not unlike static. It was as if the Mirror had not yet been tuned in to a particular 'broadcast' or 'station' and awaited a user's manipulation. She heeded Draco's advice regarding the thing being touch-activated, and so was careful not to handle it as she approached. An experimental pass of her hand inches away from the rippling surface garnered the desired results, in a manner of speaking.

She saw Draco.

He was in the dungeons. For a moment, Hermione was confused as to what she was witnessing, but then realised she was looking at events happening in real time. There was no sound, just images.

But why was the Mirror showing her this? Ah, it must be because she'd been thinking about Draco and so the enchantment processed this as her desire to go to him. It felt voyeuristic to keep watching, but she couldn't tear her eyes away. It was not unlike looking down into someone else's Pensieve.

Draco held a lantern torch as he stepped through the muck of Narcissa's dungeon cell. The light from the lantern illuminated the human debris that littered the ground. Before him was the squirming figure of his mother, still trussed up in chains, but with the bag removed from her head. Draco put down the lantern and for a moment, simply watched her.

Hermione held her breath. Hundreds if not thousands of people had made the mistake of thinking they could summon to the fore some semblance of memory in the reanimated corpses that used to be their loved ones. Not many people survived this mistake. It was easy to think that surely… _surely_ somewhere in there was the person you once knew? And if some part of them was there, then they could be reasoned with, communicated with, right?

Wrong.

She gripped her hands together tightly as she watched Draco approach the zombie, worried that his good sense would be compromised by his emotions. Perhaps that was how Lucius had been bitten? A momentary lapse where hope blinded caution?

But then…impossibly, there seemed to be a change in Narcissa. Hermione watched with morbid fascination. Narcissa became less agitated and then her milky gaze lifted. With the benefit of the lantern light, Hermione saw that she appeared to be looking at Draco, studying him in a way that Hermione knew Muggle zombies could not do.

The light also showed her for what she was—a dead human body hijacked by a virus that slowed down decay, that took command of basic brain functions in order to reanimate its host and maximise the potential spread of the contagion. The damp of the dungeon had taken its toll on her body. Narcissa was slowly falling to pieces. There were only clumps of hair left on scalp that was beginning to slough away from her skull. Part of her face looked like it was melting off, the loss of structural integrity causing it to collapsing back inside her skull, taking one of her eyes with it. Her lips were gone, likely due to damage inflicted from relentless feeding. Her mouth was delineated from the rest of her face by ridges of flesh around the top of her gums where her lips had once been. She still had most of her teeth, but they were narrow and elongated, owing to a receding gum-line.

Her mouth opened wide, not in a snarl or to attack, but to make a sound. Hermione could not hear what it was, but she imagined it to be a long, drawn out moan. Not aggressive, from the looks of it. If she didn't know better, she would say it resembled an attempt to communicate. There seemed to be a growing body of evidence to suggest that wizarding zombies really did manage to retain some of their memories and faculties—as exhibited by the tool usage she and Draco had seen at Hogwarts, the almost coordinated attacks of the magical zombies in Amarov's pit. And then there was the unnerving zombie in the red hoodie that stood outside the house at Grimmauld Place, a silent beacon for others of his kind to come and join his eerie vigil.

Draco's gloved hand rose. He aimed his gun at the creature's head.

Narcissa's mouth closed. Hermione watched as the zombie jerked forward and then slowly pressed its forehead against the barrel of the gun. A more skeptical mind may have attributed this action to mere coincidence, a confluence of accidental actions, but to Hermione, it looked deliberate. And if so, the meaning seemed easy enough to work out.

Probably the worst part of it all was that Draco did not immediately shoot. Hermione could not make out his expression and was thankful for that. This fly-on-the-wall insight was already enough of an invasion of privacy. Mother and son remained like that for a while, and Hermione was beginning to suspect that Draco was not going to pull the trigger. And to her horror, he stepped closer to the creature, almost close enough to embrace, and maybe that was his attention.

"No, Draco…"Hermione heard herself say. By Merlin, if he did follow through, she would step right through the Mirror then and there, and use their precious single portkey journey to stop him.

It was Narcissa who decided the outcome. She pulled her head back, away from the gun and then lunged at him. This time, her teeth were bared, inches away from sinking into him. Hermione flinched when the gun went off; the sound of the shot echoing through the house. Narcissa's head slumped forward.

It took a few moments for Hermione to breathe normally once more. She knew Draco well enough to suspect he hadn't been about to succumb to the same hope harboured by his father—that Narcissa was still viable. No, rather, he had been unwilling to kill her while there had been a spark of humanity left in her. He needed to kill a monster. And she had delivered on that need, whether deliberately or knowingly, no one could be sure. The outcome was still a bullet through the brain.

Hermione got to her feet to pace around the room. She felt like she had somehow aged a decade in the last ten minutes. Lucius and Narcissa were dead and Draco was bearing this monumental burden on his own. Enough was enough. She decided she would go downstairs and find him, whether he wished to see her or not. However, while she was alone in the attic, there was something important that she needed to check before she sought him out.

She sat before the Mirror once more, sucked in a long breath and then held her palm up near the surface.

_Harry. Where are you?_

If the portkey could only take you to unWarded locations, then it would not be able to show her the Taransay community, if indeed Harry was there. Hermione gave it a shot anyway.

She thought of the people at Taransay, picturing the sea of refugee tents flapping in the strong Hebridean wind. The Mirror rippled, attempting to make the connection, but produced nothing. She tried the same thing with the Grimmauld Place house and oddly, the Mirror didn't register anything at all. It remained flat and lifeless, as if this particular location didn't even exist. Hermione frowned. That wasn't very reassuring. Perhaps it was because of the house's particular conglomeration of wards?

Next, she pictured the fleet's home ship in her mind. She thought of Professor Vadim Belikov, who was synonymous with the fleet's laboratories. The reflective surface of the Mirror rippled wildly, recalibrated, focussed.

Hermione made a small sound.

Harry was standing beside Belikov in the home ship's pristine lab, a hand on his hip, listening intently to something the older man was saying. Draco had been correct. Harry was indeed with the fleet! Hermione wanted to run into his arms and squeeze the life out of him. At one point, he removed his glasses, cleaned them and put them back on—something he tended to do when he was trying to wrap his brain around a particularly tricky bit of logic. He looked tired, but otherwise well. Perhaps he had just joined the fleet? Hermione scanned the rest of the scene. There was no sign of Neville and the others. Were they all together or had some of the team already gone to Taransay? That seemed much more likely, given Scrimgeour's backup plans.

Belikov looked haggard. Was it from the stress of managing the fleet? It was a massive undertaking, but now that Harry was there, they had the benefit of magic.

Hermione thought about how easy it would be to touch that flickering image of Harry's face and find herself instantly transported to the lab, no doubt surprising and delighting Harry. What would Harry think of her decision to leave? He wouldn't believe it, probably. He wouldn't stand for it, either. He'd be suspicious of Draco's part in the whole thing and he would demand to hear the reasons from Hermione herself.

_Which meant that Harry was coming to Malfoy Manor…_

Harry was coming! Hermione would bet her life on it. She shut her eyes and thanked whatever deity might have been listening, for Harry Potter's monumental predictability.

The image of the lab began to warp and Hermione felt a distinct pressure start to build behind her eyes. She would need to be careful not to expend too much of the enchantment in case this aspect of the Mirror was as finite a resource as the portkey.

One last check-in.

Hermione summoned up an image of her parents.

"Oh, Dad," she whispered, crying and laughing at the same time.

Hermione saw her father packing a small plastic crate with what looked like freshly baked scones. He was in the kitchen of the family home. Hermione had only ever visited the place once. There may not have been any electricity now, but it was the absence of other details that was truly noteworthy. There were no bars or boards over the windows. In fact, unbelievably, one of the windows was _open_ , the Australian summer breeze stirring the short, lace curtains that Hermione's mother had sewn. As Hermione watched, her father turned to speak to her mother.

Mrs Granger entered the kitchen, carrying several bunches of gnarly looking cabbages, still dusted with dirt. Her father made a comment, to which her mother rolled her eyes. They packed these supplies into the crate and then left their house via the kitchen door, unhurried and entirely unperturbed.

If safety was what you craved, then Draco was correct to want her to go to her parents. You could do more than just survive in Australia, you could _live._

Hermione had seen enough. She wanted to share with Draco what she had witnessed through the Mirror, but when she went down to the dungeons, he was already gone. So was Narcissa. The absence of his parents' bodies likely meant that he had left the Manor to bury them. She was tempted to go back to the Mirror and simply summon up his location, but felt she had already intruded enough into his private matters for one day. Hermione didn't sit around idly waiting for him to reappear, but rather began to proceed as if they would soon be departing the Manor together.

Whether he wanted to or not was beside the point. She was not leaving him.

The Mirror was cumbersome, but light. Even though the portkey was a one-way journey, it was still invaluable. It would have to come back to the fleet with them. Hermione wrapped it up in a cloth and took it downstairs to the library. She combed through the house for food-laden portraits, gathering the ones that were small enough to carry. She checked and loaded their guns, though she was thwarted by some of the more complicated-looking rifles that came with all manner of attachments. Their clothing was gathered, rolled up and shoved into their bags. She packed up toiletries and collected all the additional candles she could find. While the magical portraits did contain a multitude of drinks, they were starting to run low on clean, drinking water. So she took all their empty plastic bottles to the bathroom and filled them up.

It wasn't until she had walked out to the car to check that there was nothing left in the boot, that she saw the smoke in the distance.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set. Even with the impending darkness, all Hermione had to do to find Draco was walk towards the column of grey and black smoke rising above the tree line. Failing that, there was always the sound of gunfire. The only thing she took with her from the house was her gun. She stopped at the great iron gates at the front of the Manor grounds, cognisant of the fact that she would not be able to re-enter the property on her own without Draco.

Oh well. She pushed the gates open and ran down the hill towards the village, her imagination painted all sorts of horrid pictures. The reality was no less awful, but somewhat anticlimactic.

In the middle of the village, Draco had lit a funeral pyre within which burned two bodies—Lucius and Narcissa, presumably. Hermione could still see remnants of the sheets that had been used to wrap them. The fire was enormous. The tops of the flames were higher than the roofs of many of the village shop-houses. Seated on the cold ground some distance away from the fire, was Draco. He was dressed entirely in black, with the hood of his coat pulled up to cover his light hair. There was a semi-automatic rifle beside him. He had one knee drawn up, over which he balanced his arm. Clutched in his hand was a nearly empty, crystal decanter of whiskey or brandy.

There were at least fifteen to twenty zombies that Hermione could see, all of whom had been attracted by the fire and the previous gunshots. Some were lurching toward Draco. Others were stumbling out of cottages and shops, roused by all the noise and the roaring fire. Hermione saw one zombie with what appeared to be fishing spears sticking out of its torso. Another zombie was still wearing a business suit, complete with tie pin and pocket square. He might have looked rather dapper if it wasn't for the fact that both his hands ended in bloody stumps.

Draco observed all this with a detached expression. He fired the rifle haphazardly, not really hitting the approaching zombies where it mattered, and then went back to drinking from the heavy decanter.

"What are you doing!" Hermione shouted. She ran to stand beside him, firing her own gun at two nearby zombies. It took her four shots to dispatch them.

"Evening," Draco said.

He was sotted. Hermione was unsurprised, given the missing alcohol.

"Malfoy, get your arse up off the ground right now!" She walked ahead to pick off more of the creatures. One of the zombies helpfully stumbled right through the funeral pyre. Hermione was reminded of Agent Richards' comment about chasing down burning piñatas at Welwyn Hospital. She shot the walking pillar of flame before it caused any more damage to the village. Several more zombies were now emerging from the forest that bordered the road. Hermione killed off as many as she could, until her clip was empty.

And _still_ Draco sat on the ground, watching the fire and occasionally taking a swig.

There was nothing else to do except pick up his rifle and use it. She'd never fired one of them before, but at this point, beggars could not be choosers. The gun was powerful. The recoil from the first shot caused the butt of the rifle to nearly slam back into her face, not to mention the fact the bullet flew off into the distance, nowhere near her intended target.

"Damn it," she swore, and tried again. Bracing her feet apart helped to counter the recoil, but only just. This time, she yanked on the trigger and managed to glance her shot against the side of the businessman-zombie's head. Not that it fazed the creature. A flap of skin flopped over its eyes. It continued, undaunted.

It was at this point that Draco deigned to stand up. He was none too steady, she noticed. "You're doing that incorrectly."

Hermione turned to glare at him. "You think?!"

The things this man could do to _still_ surprise her. Acting like they had all the time in the world, he proceeded to wrap his arms around her, his leather gloved hands settling over her own, repositioning them upon his rifle. She felt dwarfed by him. He pressed the top of his thigh into her backside. Hermione could feel the heat of his body even through four to five layers of clothing.

"Don't hold it so high up, you're going to knock yourself out on the recoil. Let your shoulder take the brunt."

There was no time for further bickering, though plenty of call for it. She fired the gun and was glad that she held it steady enough to actually hit her targets in the torso. The precision required for headshots seemed beyond her, however.

"You're pulling too hard on the trigger," he said into her ear. He smelled of alcohol and ash. "Draw it back until the slack is all but gone, and _then_ squeeze."

Six, no seven zombies were only about twenty meters away.

She twisted around in his arms to give him a look of incredulity. "Draco…"

"You can do this," he insisted.

Hermione turned her attention back to the gun, holding it like he showed her, allowing him to correct her stance, trying to ignore the fact they were slowly being encircled by the creatures. She got one of the zombie in her sights, pulled back gently on the trigger and let the bullet fly.

It hit the creature in the middle of its face.

"Well done," he praised. "My turn."

Hermione gladly relinquished the weapon, upon which Draco eliminated the remaining zombies in quick succession. There was nothing unsteady or imprecise about it. She glared at him. More creatures lumbered towards the village, but they were many minutes away. By now, Draco had picked up the decanter and was heading back to the Manor.

"We should go," he said, almost as a passing comment.

Hermione stared at his back. She didn't know if she wanted to ask if he was alright, or throw a rock at his head.


	48. Living

It was difficult, but Hermione held her tongue until they were back inside the house. The intense warmth of the library was heady. For a moment, she was content to simply stand before the fire in an attempt to defrost. Draco set down the nearly empty decanter on the carpet beside the Chesterfield. He added his rifle to the pile of weapons in the corner and tossed his damp coat over the lounge. The gloves came off next, followed by his boots, which he threw near the fire to dry off. He stretched his long legs out on the lounge, closing his eyes.

"Where have you been for the last couple of days?" Hermione finally asked.

He replied without bothering to look at her. "Taking care of things."

"I was worried," she explained. ''You might have told me what you were doing or where you were passing the time. I looked everywhere in the house for you."

"My apologies," he said, infuriatingly.

"I saw the Mirror. I used it to look in on Grimmauld Place, Taransay Island, the fleet and my parents' house. My parents are well," she informed stiffly, wondering if it was insensitive of her to mention that.

"The Mirror won't connect to the old Black residence or Taransay Island because of the barrier enchantments."

"Yes," Hermione agreed. "But I had no difficult seeing the fleet. Harry's there."

This time, he opened half-lidded eyes to look at her. His voice slurred when he spoke. "Potter wasn't there on the last two occasions I looked."

"Well, he's there now and it's likely he'll pay us a visit here, don't you think?"

He shut his eyes again, resting his forearm over his forehead. "It doesn't really matter, Granger. You get to return to the fleet either way."

She wanted to throttle. "You're coming with me."

"You're sure of that, are you?"

"Yes!"

He said nothing more. Enough time passed that Hermione thought he might actually be asleep. It belatedly occurred to her that she was covered in a fine layer of ash. The thought of leaving Draco on his own did not appeal, but she decided to grab her toiletries bag and hurry downstairs for a quick wash before laying out some dinner for them. The sooner she got food into him, the less likely she was going to have to deal with a drunk and belligerent Draco Malfoy. And then maybe they could talk.

* * *

Draco was reading when she returned.

He'd moved from the lounge to the writing desk near the boarded windows, having lit several candles. His feet were propped up on the mahogany desk, ankles folded. Hermione recognised the book. There were several copies at the Hogwarts library for the senior form to use. It was an old, spell encyclopaedia, written in Latin.

She sat before fire and spread her hair out with her fingers, to dry it. "A bit of light reading before bed?" she inquired.

Draco shut the book with a snap. "This one belonged to my mother. It's a signed, first edition. She collected rare books."

Given that the original publication was at least five hundred years old, this fact was rather impressive. As was the news that Narcissa Malfoy apparently had other interests besides enabling the Death Eaters in her life. Hermione was cross with herself at this uncharitable thought.

"May I see it?" she asked.

Draco held out the book to her. Hermione walked across the room to take it from him, careful in handling the brittle parchment pages, bound and rebound over the centuries. There was a slip of new parchment at the front, bearing a short inscription, dated the fifth of June, 1980.

_For my little boy on his first day._

_The first of many._

_Love,_

_Mummy_

Hermione looked up at Draco. "She wanted you to have this?"

Draco nodded. "A book on the first day of every new year of my life. I used to roll my eyes at it." He stared at the shelves in the room. "If there are any other tomes in here of some value, they are all likely to contain similar inscriptions."

Hermione thought that was utterly charming. It was easy to think of Narcissa—and Lucius, for that matter—as almost non-human, as embodiments of what was wrong with the Wizarding world. But they had also been parents and people, with loves foibles and traditions.

"That's a fine legacy, Draco."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "I wonder what my legacy will be?"

"The cure," Hermione said, without hesitation.

There was little warmth in his eyes now. The nostalgia was gone. He was staring at her with something almost akin to pity. "Do you never tire of being so fucking wholesome all the time?"

The animosity of the question startled her. "Well I don't mean to be."

He snorted. "And therein lies the source of the wholesomeness. Your complete and utter lack of guile. You wouldn't know self-serving if it sat on you."

She frowned at him. "I left the fleet didn't I? I did that for _me_ , not for anyone else. You're the one that lied to me when you said you'd bring me back once I felt better! I don't know what you want from me, Draco. It's like you actually preferred me damaged."

"I prefer you _alive_."

"Even if you're not going to be with me?"

He sighed and to her surprise, leaned forward in his seat and cupped her cheek. "Even if I'm not going to be with you," he repeated. "I don't do well in communal situations."

"I know. You want your freedom, don't you?" She took his hand and gently pushed up the sleeve of his jumper, letting her thumb slide along the sensitive, pale skin of his inner arm. The faded Mark was revealed. "You should have thought about that before you signed your life away to Voldemort."

Draco's soft laugh was full bitterness. "You're not wrong. And I am as responsible for this plague as the man who designed it. You think creating the cure will be sufficient penance?"

"It's a good place to start," Hermione replied. She was self-conscious of her shivering, but was unable to stop it.

He hooked two fingers into the waistband of her trousers and hauled her close, such that she was now standing between his legs as he remained seated in the chair. "There's no penance for the things I've done. For the things _I do_."

She didn't understand. "What else are you planning to do?"

Draco made a show of looking at the grandfather clock behind her. "Whatever I can, before Harry Potter crashes the party."

* * *

"You're drunk."

"Yep."

He didn't even bother denying it. Draco had one arm around her waist and one hand in her hair. The tight, wet curls were a small source of fascination. He took hold of a curl, stretched it out and then let it spring back into place.

Hermione had tucked the hem of her large jumper and flannel workman's shirt into the waistband of her trousers. Draco pulled it all out. She flinched when he put his hands under the shirt and splayed them wide, his fingers dancing across the smooth skin of her back. It was a mixed blessing that the zombie apocalypse did not come with brassieres.

Draco had been seated up until this point, and so Hermione felt like she still had some semblance of control. That feeling evaporated when he stood up and pulled the jumper over her head, leaving her in a red and black, checked flannel shirt.

It wasn't like before, when she was fragile and he had played a deliberate chase and retreat game with her. She had wanted him and he had frustratingly doled out intimacy in precise portions so as not to overwhelm her. Now, they _both_ wanted and were ready for it, but there was a destructive element to what Draco was doing that made Hermione very wary.

When his hands went to the buttons of her shirt, Hermione instinctively covered them with her own, seeking to halt him.

He was halted. The look on his face both scared and exhilarated her. This was no playful interlude. "I will stop any time you wish it."

"I, uh. I feel like we need to talk about what's happened, before we…"

"Go on," he encouraged, undoing the buttons.

"Um." Three buttons were undone. He paused, raising an eyebrow at her. "What formalities do we need to get out of the way?"

And quite suddenly, Hermione didn't know what to say. How did one unpack their particular problem? How did you tell someone you thought they were being noble and selfish at the same time? Their last discussion had ended up with her telling him she thought practically everything and everyone else was more important than them. What a disaster that had been! She was being naïve if she thought they would be able to resolve their differences in order to allow for this—whatever it was—to continue.

"I'm worried about what happens after," was all she said. It was the simple truth.

He finished undoing the last two buttons and slid the shirt off her shoulders, letting it pool to the floor. Hermione was immediately self-conscious. She folded her arms across her chest and spent time consulting her feet. This wasn't teasing kisses and exploratory caresses while sitting on the lounge in near darkness. He wasn't being rough by any means, but there was none of the previous affection either.

"Shoes," he said. It didn't sound like a request.

"Draco…"

"I said I would stop whenever you want," he repeated.

That was the problem. She _didn't_ want him to stop, but nor was she sure she wanted to keep going. Not like this.

Nevertheless, Hermione slipped her shoes off. He started on her trousers, unsnapping the button and pulling down her zip fly. She tensed when he began to pull her trousers down over her hips. He felt this and paused, ostensibly waiting for permission to continue. Hermione was confused. Oh, he wanted her. She could sense that. But what he was doing felt mechanical, like a series of steps executed in sequence, rather than two adults sharing something special. Truth be told, she was starting to feel quite upset.

"Stop?"

"No," she said, because despite everything, she wanted this odd, strained intimacy with Draco.

She squeaked when he picked her up about the waist and deposited her on the edge of the desk. He grabbed handfuls of the trousers and pulled them free of her legs, leaving her in a pair of highly unflattering, beige, cotton underpants and mismatched woollen socks. Somewhere in the world (Australia probably) people still wore socks that matched. This was not that place.

Hermione felt exceedingly vulnerable, especially since Draco was completely dressed.

"Lift," he said, in that same commanding, sterile tone.

She braced her hands against the edge of the desk to raise her bottom and promptly turned an even darker shade of red when Draco divested her of her underwear. Now, she was completely naked, seated on the table in his father's library. Her skin still held the heat of her bath and the scent of soap. She immediately crossed her legs and stared at him with a mixture of desire and caution. It was unpleasant to feel this unsure, to feel this new.

He took a few steps back and observed her. The scrutiny was almost beyond enduring. For the first time in her life, Hermione actually wished for more hair. Something, _anything_ to shield her from his assessing gaze.

"I'll stop whenever you wish it."

It was like a mantra and this time, Hermione recognised it for what it was—a challenge. It was also meant to wound.

"Yes, I heard you the first time," she said, narrowing her eyes.

He almost smiled at her. And then he began removing his clothes, his eyes raking over her the entire time. First, his jumper, then the long-sleeved shirt and the t-shirt beneath it, leaving him in his belted, black combat trousers and bare feet. She returned his assessing stare, staring unabashedly as his hands went to his belt buckle and the buttons that fastened his trousers. She kept right on looking when the trousers came off and he was as bare as she was.

Hermione swallowed (not audibly, she hoped). He may have been taking a clinical approach to sex, but there was no denying he wanted to be here with her.

There was nothing gentle in his expression as he walked back to her, placed a hand on each knee and parted her legs. Hermione ran her hands up his arms and then down again. As always, she enjoyed his strength and the sensation of the dark blond hairs on his arms. Her gaze paused at the new scar on his bicep and the much older ones on his belly, and then her gaze dipped lower. No scars _there_ that she could see, but rather, what he came equipped with looked liable to wound _her_. Of course this wasn't the first aroused male member she'd handled in her life, but she cared about the outcome of this encounter more so than any other.

Hermione was fascinated. She welcomed the brief surge of power she felt when she took him into her hands. He was beautiful. Sleek and hot and the right amount of paleness that was inherent to him, but there was a healthy flush of colour. She chanced to look upwards and was rewarded by an expression of contained pain on his face. His eyes closed. She squeezed him and watched with pleasure as his lips parted slightly in exhalation. Hermione tilted her face up for a long overdue kiss.

But Draco pulled away, one hand coming up to catch her chin, his thumb running over her plump lower lip in an odd, confusing gesture of caressing confinement. Not understanding, Hermione tried again and he responded the same way, by holding her chin firmly.

No kissing? What was happening here? Her hurt was as great as her concern. Something was definitely not right.

"Tell me to stop and we'll stop," he said again, his voice gritty.

She said nothing, letting her discontent show in her expression. No, they would not be stopping. She would see this through.

Draco took her silence as acquiescence. He pushed her back until she was lying on the table, propped up on her elbows, with her knees dangling over the edge. His palms cupped her breasts, exploring the weight and feel of them in his hands. And then his mouth was on her.

Hermione shut her eyes, exultant. She threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling his head up. He was distracted enough to slide his mouth against hers briefly before pulling away. Hermione groaned, but her dissatisfaction and the denied kiss was short lived because his mouth fastened over the top of one of her breasts and he began to suck. Her legs came up, seemingly of their own accord, seeking to cocoon her body around him. He released the puckered, wet, sensitive tip of her breast and began placing soft nips along the underside, drawing her flesh into his mouth, swirling his tongue in firm, dizzying circles that automatically made her wonder where else on her body he could perform this trick.

She was well aware that she was not the most well-endowed woman, but he made her feel as if she was overflowing bounty in his hands, so thoroughly did he lavish attention over first one, and then the other breast. It felt like the most natural thing in the world when that clever mouth slid down her body, pausing to leave scalding hot kisses along her belly, and then upon each, jutting hip bone, before he repositioned her legs.

He didn't draw it out or tease, and Hermione was certain these tricks were well within his repertoire, too. Not tonight. On this occasion he took a more direct approach. He parted her gently with his thumbs and executed a broad lick with the flat of his tongue. Just once. Her hips came off the table. She was quite she she'd never felt anything so exquisite in her life.

"Say the word and this ends," he whispered against her sensitive flesh. Now it sounded like a threat.

The words didn't even properly register until Hermione realised he'd stopped and wasn't going to continue until she said something. Dear God, this was taking progressive consent to new and painful levels. She lifted her head to stare at him. "Please…"

He continued his ministrations, unhurried and deliberate. Hermione was a squirming, pleading mess within minutes. The sensation of his mouth on her was maddening enough, let alone the sight of it. At some point, he had risen to his full height, which meant that he was holding her up off the table, the backs of her knees rested over his shoulders, her legs dangled down over his back. His strong hands were under her bottom, supporting the weight of her lower body, effectively raising her to his mouth to…

Her orgasm hit unexpectedly. The sensation bloomed somewhere in her lower abdomen and seemed to explode outward in waves. Every muscle in her body tensed. Draco had been ready for this even if she hadn't. He had her flat on the table once more and had gently fit two fingers inside her, catching the last of her internal contractions. It was madness. How could anything that felt this good be borne from something that had been so worrisome moments before?

He removed his fingers and placed his hands on her thighs, spreading them further. Hermione peeked through her lashes, watching the mesmerising concentration on his face as he took himself in his hand and rubbed against her. She felt the size and the smoothness of him. Soft and blunt. But also hard, hot and silky due to the wetness from her own body. He pushed, experimentally, and Hermione felt herself start to fill up.

It was the most extraordinary sensation, alien and yet achingly right at the same time. Tiny little internal spasms were still ongoing. She wondered if he could feel them.

The request for permission came once more, as expected. "I'll stop," he said, his voice hoarse, "if you wish it?"

Hermione was furious that even now, he was still committed to this ridiculous quarantining of emotions. " _I wish it_ ," she assured him, as she grabbed the back of his neck, pulling herself up to steal a kiss. Her legs simultaneously hooked around him, drawing him in, sheathing his entire length so forcefully inside her that he grunted from the impact.

The stolen kiss was short-lived because the pain was unexpected. She knew there was liable to be some, but it still came as a surprise. Hermione froze. She dropped her head against his shoulder and whimpered, her hands fisted against his back.

"Silly girl," he admonished softly, in a voice so thick it was barely recognisable. His hands were gentle as he stoked her back, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into her hips. "I'm going to shift you, a little. Bear with me…"

He moved, lifting her bottom and bringing her closer to the edge of the table. Hermione winced. That small movement caused little jolts of unfamiliar pain to flutter through her lower abdomen. She felt stretched to bursting and to make matters worse, tears were starting to well up. Damn it. Damn her emotions, her hormones and her impaired decision making! And damn the man who was ripping her heart to shreds with how gentle he was being with her right now.

Draco lifted her chin from his shoulder, nuzzling his lips against hers. "Kiska, that was not how I would have done it."

"No, you would have asked for permission first," she said, aware that she sounded petulant. But his mouth was brushing against hers again and he could make all kinds of hurts go away when he kissed her. She wanted him to kiss her more than anything.

"You are so incredibly small," he said, and there was a definite groan in his voice. "How bad is the pain?"

"You knew?" she asked. Of course he'd known she was a virgin.

"Yes."

She wiggled, experimentally. He made the most arousing, soft sound. Oh Merlin, it really stung. But she could feel the pleasure to be had. It was within reach, waiting of her to engage with it.

"It hurts."

"If you—"

"Oh my God, Draco Malfoy! If you ask me for permission to continue one more time…"

"I'll take that as yes," he said, through gritted teeth. And then he pulled out slightly and slid back in.

It felt OK. She told him so.

"Just OK?" he asked, his tone teasing, though now it looked like he was in acute discomfort.

He eased out and entered with a little more force each time. Hermione shut her eyes and concentrated on the sensation of Draco gently filling her with each thrust. He must have read the change in her expression, because suddenly the pace picked up. His hands on her hips tightened and he wasn't just thrusting into her anymore, but pulling her into him. She knew some couples could be quite vocal, but it seemed that they were mostly silent. The few noises they made came from her—short, sharp little gasps.

She looked down between them, marvelling at how it all worked and fit. When she glanced up, she saw that he was watching her watch them, his expression scorching. Hermione wanted to envelop more of him than just the physical. She tilted her face up to catch his lips, knowing that it would hurt badly if he rebuffed yet again. But perhaps they had reached a point where he would allow her in and would no longer be so tightly guarded.

The gamble paid off. There was only a moment of hesitation before he captured her mouth in a kiss that made her heart clench in her chest even as her spirit soared. He kissed her like he was drowning and she was all that was keeping his head above the surface. Hermione moaned into his mouth, her arms wrapped tightly around him, not wanting any part of the moment to end.

But it could not last forever. She felt the tension in his arms and back, felt his hand slide down to hold her breast as he came. He broke the kiss, mostly to catch his breath, dropping his forehead against hers. The sensation of his orgasm inside her was curious and wonderful. It was also irresponsible, but she allowed herself not to care, at least for the moment. They would have this moment.

She was deliriously happy and not quite sure why. Nothing had changed, really. Sex didn't tend to fix problems. Often, it made things worse. But there was tremendous relief and satisfaction in knowing that they could be so very good together in more ways than just intellectual and professional.

His head was still bowed and his breathing still choppy. Hermione let her sappier emotions run riot. Smiling, she gently kissed his forehead and the bridge of his nose, her toes curling with contentment.

"I love you," she told him. It needed saying. If ever there was a time to tell someone you loved them, it was these days.

His head lifted and her heart fell to see the small frown there and the previous coolness return. His silver eyes ran over her face, almost as if he was testing the truth of her words in her expression. If he was, the proof was plain to see. And then, to Hermione's profound disappointment, he gently removed her arms from around his neck and stepped away from her.

Hermione watched as Draco pulled on his trousers, grabbed his clothing and shoes, and walked out of the library, half-dressed.

She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes in an effort to stave off the tears. His rejection of her feelings felt like a physical blow. It was almost funny how, at fourteen she'd been so devastated at Ron's continual obliviousness regarding her feelings for him. At the time, she couldn't imagine anything else being quite so uniquely awful. That was nothing compared to how it felt now, as an adult. The pain was sharp and brittle in her chest.

With as much dignity as she could muster, Hermione hopped off the table, did her best to clean up and then lay down on her mattress. Dinner was not on the cards, apparently. Sleep eluded her for several hours more and it may have been unkind of her to think it, but she hoped Draco was equally sleepless, wherever he was.


	49. Journey's End

Draco stood at the sink in the house elves' washroom and turned on the faucet.

The water took a while to appear, though you could hear its distant, bellowing progress through the old pipes. Next to the washbasin sat a candelabra with three, black candles, one of which had recently been extinguished. A serpentine trail of smoke coiled up into the air. The remaining two candles were still lit. Draco stared at the flames as he held his hands under the running water, the coldness of the water was almost scalding in its intensity.

It occurred to him that he did not recall having brought the candelabra with him to the bathroom.

Nor did he recall coming down to the bathroom after leaving Hermione alone, rather disastrously, in the library.

A quick glance downwards at his person revealed that he was not haphazardly dressed in his faded trousers. No. He was wearing his Hogwarts school uniform—polished shoes, green and silver tie, prefects' badge pinned to his shirt. Draco knew what he was going to see in the mirror when he looked at it, but the sight of his teenaged self was nevertheless startling.

It seemed impossible that he was ever _that_ young, that the current feeling of scholarly curiosity and apprehension belonging to his grown-up self was going to look so much like fragility and fear on his reflected, younger face.

He left the tap running and stood back from the sink, feeling an intense need to turn around and yet acutely unwilling to do so. The sound of the water was suddenly deafening. It was a distant tsunami, emanating through the walls and seemingly from the inside of his own head.

Disconcerted, Draco stepped forward and turned off the faucet.

But the sound of running water did not cease, though it was gentler now. It was now coming from _behind_ him, from the center of the room. Water collected inside one of the stoppered tubs, the flow not overly hurried, but more substantial than a trickle. There was a draft that felt and sounded like a breath, and one of the two remaining lit candles in the candelabra snuffed out. The single, remaining flame flickered wildly, casting madly dancing shadows of long, mangled shapes all about the walls of the bathing chamber.

Through the reflection in the mirror, Draco saw the finger sitting inside the tub. He refused to turn around, out of stubbornness. There was no need. He knew who it was even before the visitor spoke.

And unfortunately, they did eventually speak.

"Raising you was an exercise is controlling fear," said Lucius Malfoy.

The strength of that voice indicated that this was not the pile of disease ridden, bloodless skin and bones that Draco had carried out to the funeral pyre. This was a voice from his memory.

The apparition that accompanied the voice was not for the faint of heart. Lucius appeared as a thoroughly blackened corpse, still smoking in parts. His silver eyes, so like Draco's own, were preternaturally bright in a disfigured, misshapened, pitch-black face. He sat in the tub with his knees drawn up. It was a macabre recreation of Lucius' last bath, though the mood then had been one of desolation. There was none of that now. This, at least, was slightly consoling.

The water continued to fill the tub, causing steam to billow up where it came into contact with the still-smouldering sections of Lucius' over-cooked body.

"Is that right?" Draco said. His voice was soft, hoarse, but still echoed through the cavernous chamber. Lucius' voice, Draco could not help but notice, had no echo. It was as flat and dead as the man himself.

"Yes," said his father. "Your mother and I did not have the capacity to do as we desired, not in our own lives, nor in yours." He snorted. "No Malfoy has ever had that right. Even so, your mother had such ambitions for you. It sounds a simple thing, doesn't it? What decent parent does not wish happiness for their child?" Lucius' eyes bored into him. "It is difficult thing to be a good parent when you are so crippled with fear."

It saddened him to know that this was not his father talking. Lucius did not do wistful nor wax philosophical. This was young Draco's foolish, childish desires. Draco remembered it well and this was why it took him a moment to make his voice work in a throat that seized up, somewhat.

"I wish you had managed to overcome your fears. There is more to the world than the obligations of the Malfoys," he replied.

Lucius smiled, revealing flat, white teeth. This small movement of his face caused flakes of cooked flesh to settle along the surface of the water. "Ah, but _you_ defied me and our Master. You seized your freedom and _you are not afraid_."

"I am," Draco protested. "I am besieged by fear."

"What is this fear, then?" his father goaded. "Speak up, boy! Not the loss of a child. Not failure. Not even death, it seems. _What are you afraid of_?"

Draco had no answer.

"If you habitually insulate yourself from the fear of potential loss, how do you know what has any real value to you anymore?" his father asked.

The elder Malfoy stood up in the tub, the cascading sheets of water stripped his fire ravaged corpse of additional layers of flesh. He had not been burned evenly—parts of him were still pink, other parts were so badly incinerated that bleached bone poked through. He climbed out from the tub, and approached Draco, black, claw-like hand extended. He grabbed his son on the shoulder, almost painfully, and hauled Draco close to speak into his ear.

"The pain you fear, if ever it eventuates, will still pale in comparison to the beauty of what comes before."

Draco was quite impressed with the precision of the dark dream, that it furnished this scene with the eye-watering, smoky smell of badly burnt bacon.

"Have you stepped outside lately, father? Draco asked, incredulously. "There is not much beauty to be found any more, no matter how far one travels."

Lucius walked over to the remaining candle and bent down to it. This simple stretch cause the skin of his back to split open with a sickening, wet sound.

"Who said you had to go very far at all to find it?" Lucius said, with what looked like a smirk. Draco could not be sure, given the cracked, burnt visage.

The last candle was blown out.

* * *

Her dreams were full of clawing hands, gnashing teeth and blood. Standard fare, really. But it was the awful racket that awakened her.

Hermione sat up on her mattress, momentarily wondering if the bombs had dropped a month early. There were loud, multiple explosions, seemingly raining over the Manor itself. And yet the roof had not caved in and nothing was up in flames.

She flinched as a particularly loud boom caused the brass light fixtures overhead to shimmer. Alarmed, Hermione pressed a palm against the floor and felt the vibrations there, too. She really didn't need to glance across at Draco's mattress to know that he had not returned to her last night and had instead chosen to sleep elsewhere.

Hermione wished she knew how to stop feeling wretched about the whole incident, but the pain was still there, high and tight in her chest. However, the urgency was now centered on the mysterious noise and the conspicuous lack of Draco. She got dressed hurriedly, shoved a pistol into her jacket pocket and left the library to investigate. By the time she ran to the foyer, the noise had ceased.

The house was bitterly cold. This was due to the front door hanging wide open. Hermione stood at the threshold, feet splayed apart in a defensive stance, hand firm around the handle of her gun. It was now quiet outside. She stared out into the early morning fog, not sure what she was going to see.

Draco appeared first. Given the intense cold, he had the presence of mind to be clad in what looked like every piece of clothing in his immediate possession, his uneven blond hair was just visible through the opening of a dark hoodie. He saw her and his steps slowed until he was standing in the middle of the circular carriageway. What was he doing? He looked like he was waiting. She opened her mouth to call out to him, but no sound eventuated, just a suspended "oh" of silent astonishment because _Harry_ emerged rather dramatically from the mist, followed by the hulking form of Anatoli.

Harry came to a stop beside Draco. It did something to her, to see these two men standing there together—safe and well and close enough to hold on to and possibly never ever let go.

Draco's expression was unreadable. Harry's was its antithesis. He was crying. He was in good company. Hermione was a blubbering mess by the time he reached her. They held on to each other just inside the foyer, barely aware that Anatoli had to inch past them, trying to be discreet despite his size.

Hermione pried herself away from Harry's shoulder and looked at him, really _looked_ at him, because sometimes his emotions showed through just like physical wounds.

"What's happened?" she whispered, so gently that it only exacerbated Harry's distress.

Thus, it was Draco who replied.

"Apparently Blaise Zabini is dead."

* * *

They gathered in the library.

Anatoli had been apprehensive, as they'd walked further into the dark house. Presently, he stood near the door. His eyes darted around the room, as if he was concerned something was going to launch out of the bookshelves and attack him.

Hermione fussed over Harry, frowning at the scrapes on his face. After several minutes of her tut-tutting, he ended up grabbing both her hands to keep her still.

Draco stood beside the fireplace with his arms folded, just beyond the glow of the fire, half hidden in the shadows. He said nothing as Harry haltingly explained about the unexpected but timely rescue at Grimmauld Place and about Blaise's courageous last moments. He told them of his astonishment at seeing the fleet, first-hand, of Agent Richards' positive prognosis and of the plan to evacuate all of Taransay Island, and bring both Muggle and Magical survivors together on the fleet. Professor Belikov had filled Harry in on what had occurred on the fleet since Hermione's capture.

If Harry had questions to ask of Hermione, he seemed to be holding on to them for now.

There was no mention of Padma or Mercer. Hermione saw the avoidance in Harry's gaze and knew there would be time to talk about it some more and mourn properly, later. Hermione had been telling herself this for more than a year now. Mourn your dead later, care later, cry later, break later. Let it all sink in, later. If they didn't get the cure out to the world as soon as possible, there would not _be_ a later.

"It was good to see Wallen again," Harry said, with a smile.

"Yes. I imagine go. He's been through a lot."

"As have you," Harry replied, smile now gone. He frowned down at his hands. "Hermione, I'm so sorry—"

"Will you just _sit_ , man?" Draco said, addressing Anatoli. The large man was still hovering by the door, looking uneasy. "The furniture is not going to eat you. Not in _this_ room, at any rate."

Anatoli cast an alarmed glare at the Chesterfield setting and remained resolutely standing.

With a sigh, Draco left the shadows and went to pour himself a drink.

Hermione watched him toss back some brandy and frowned when he reached for more. "A bit early in the day, don't you think?" she asked, tersely.

He didn't reply until the second glass was drained, finally giving her a lopsided, roguish smile that somehow managed to be ice-cold. "It's shaping out to be that kind of day, don't _you_ think?" He held the brandy decanter out to Harry. "Potter?"

Harry watched him with a mixture of sympathy and suspicion. "No, thank you."

Draco flopped down on the Chesterfield beside Hermione, propping one leg up over his other knee. "Suit yourself," he replied, and then proceeded to stare at Harry.

"You have something to say to me, Malfoy?" Harry asked, after several tense seconds.

"I do."

"Spit it out, then," Harry goaded. "Not like you to hold your tongue."

"Why did Zabini die?"

Hermione shut her eyes, inhaling slowly. When she opened them, it pained her to see the misery on Harry's face. She frowned at Draco, but she might as well have been invisible, for all the attention he was paying her.

"We were up against the largest horde I've ever seen—many of them magical. When—"

"Yes, yes. You've regaled us with this tale already," Draco said, callously. "I didn't ask you how he died, I asked you _why_ he died."

" _Malfoy_ ," Hermione said, warningly.

There was righteous green fury in Harry's eyes, but it was nothing compared to the regret.

"We should have taken turns Apparating the men back to the fleet once Blaise had taken me there first."

"Only _you_ would have been travelling across open water to a location you are not familiar with. Apparation is complicated enough without that element thrown into the mix," Hermione reminded.

"And yet he is Harry Potter," Draco said, as if speaking to a much larger audience. "Who, if not Harry Potter, could accomplish such a feat?"

"What's your point, Malfoy? You obviously have one. Come to it."

"My point is you still haven't answered the question."

Hermione stared at Draco with some incredulity. "Are you truly so determined to make everyone else as miserable as you strive to be?"

She thought she was prepared for the coldness in his stare, but no, not quite. He looked at her as if they were eleven-years old again and a thousand years of blood purity and enmity festered between them.

"I am determined to have him answer the question because I am honestly curious."

"Zabini died because I didn't save him," Harry said, quietly. "That's the answer you wanted to hear, isn't it?" he asked, looking up at Draco. "I'm trained for that sort of thing. He wasn't. I could have made a different call."

"You were injured and outnumbered!" Hermione retorted.

"Da," Anatoli added his two cents. "Three hundred. Maybe more."

Harry rubbed his palm over his eyes. "It doesn't matter. My wand was too strong for him. I had no idea he'd been without magic for so long, or I would never have let him wield it. It nearly levelled him. I saw it. I should have known."

There was a moment of silence, punctuated by occasional pops and hisses from the fire.

"There's something else you should know, Malfoy," Harry continued. "Zabini's last words to me, as a matter of fact."

Draco rolled the glass idly in his hands, waiting for Harry to continue.

"He said he wanted to leave his son in your care." Harry looked at Hermione. "Yours and Hermione's."

"What?" Hermione said, stunned. "He wanted us to care for Henry?"

"Yes."

" _Us_? Why us?"

"I can't say. I'm just telling you what he wanted." Harry sighed, plucking at a loose thread on his jacket. "His dying wish, as it were."

When Hermione looked at Draco, she saw the hardness of his profile. He raised his glass and sipped from it, his jaw rigid.

"You're coming back with me, aren't you?" Harry asked her. "Malfoy said you would be. And I don't mean just for Henry. You're coming back for the fleet, for the mission?"

She dashed away hot tears with the heel of her palm. "Yes," she nodded. "I'm going back." She frowned at Draco, feeling something almost akin to hatred for how so very difficult he was being, when everything else was already so difficult.

But then she saw the tremor in his hand, as he held on to his glass so tightly she worried he would crush it. She saw the tightness in his shoulders, the familiar arrogant, defiant tilt to his chin. Only, this time, she saw it as a protective mechanism. She saw, once again, the eleven-year old boy who felt that the world owed him a living while he simultaneously walked around with the biggest chip on his shoulder. He knew little else than to be difficult because life to him had always been a particular kind of difficult in a way that was different to what she or Harry or Ron or their peers had known.

Maybe censure, distrust and low expectations only fed into some sick, self-fulfilling prophecy? Maybe knives only knew to be sharp because all anyone ever wanted from them was to cut?

She looked at Harry. "Give us a minute."

Hermione didn't speak until Harry and Anatoli's footsteps were out of earshot. Steeling herself, she knelt before Draco on the carpet, taking the now empty snifter of brandy from his unresisting hands and set it down upon the floor. She held his hands next, startled at how cold they were as she ran her warm fingers over the healing, burn-scar tissue.

If she was rebuffed yet again, she didn't know how her pride or her heart would survive.

"You and I…." she began, "we don't have to… _be_. I get that we're not in the best position to make a proper go of it at the moment. I know you want me to have my freedom, but I only have a short window of time to do something truly, spectacularly good. And if I succeed, then I'll have more options, freedom and choices than I can poke a stick at. I'll go see my parents, I'll live with them, perhaps. But I can't do that with any lightness in my heart, if I don't return to the fleet now to help while I can."

She wished he would look at her. His eyes were still downcast.

"I want you to come back with me. And I'm not going to try and sell the idea of a pardon, or of redemption, to you. It's all rather hallow at this point, I know," she admitted. "I don't even want you there because I think it's the only way to keep you alive. As much as I would worry about you, I have no doubt that you could probably survive just about anything. The truth is, I don't even want you there because I need you."

And it was this that made him look up at her, curious.

"I don't need you, Draco," she said, nodding, emphatic. "I did when I was lost in my own head for a bit, but now, I don't need you for myself and I don't even need you for the cure. Belikov has your formula. As Harry explained, with the addition of Yoshida, McAlister and with whatever help I can provide, we will make that cure. I want you there because _I want you there_. And if that isn't enough…" she shrugged. "So be it."

It was torture to remain still and impassive when his hand eventually came up and his cold knuckles brushed against her cheek. He looked at her so closely she felt like his eyes were tracing over the invisible lines of where she had been broken and stuck back together again.

"You're you again," he concluded.

"More like a new iteration," she said, uncomfortable at this unfamiliar emotional intimacy. She stood. "Gather the rest of the ammunition. Most of the paintings are in the back of the car, as is your father's horrid portkey mirror. I'll have Harry reduce everything so we can carry it. We'll meet you out the front in a few minutes."

He stood, dwarfing her, as usual. "Definitely you again."

Hermione didn't allow her relief to show until she had exited the library, grabbing on to a wall to support herself as she sagged against it. Draco Malfoy was honestly going to be the death of her. She caught up with Harry in the foyer, who looked with concern at her red face and wet cheeks.

"So is he coming with us or what?"

"He's coming," she nodded, still in mild disbelief.

Harry groaned. "Brilliant. So much for my hopes, dreams and prayers. Maybe I should have asked Professor Yoshida to make me one of his little wishing charms."

She smacked him on the arm, but was glad when he drew her into a hug. "They're not wishing charms. They're called _ema_."

Harry rested his chin on her head. "Are you really alright?"

Hermione laughed. It was odd hearing it. "Is anyone, anymore?"

Harry grunted. "Fair point."

Anatoli emerged through the front doors, looking rather put out, which could have meant anything from mild irritation to imminent disaster.

"We haf problem."

Hermione could hear a storm brewing outside.

* * *

Draco dragged the hood of his jacket over his head. Not that it helped. He was soaked from the moment he set off from the front step of the house. Harry and Hermione joined him and Anatoli at the gates to the Manor grounds, whereupon Harry cast a shelter spell over the group, deflecting the rain. Anatoli was still very unnerved by magic, but was glad to be out of the freezing wet.

"Why are they here?" Hermione asked.

Standing beyond the big gates were about fifty undead, with more lumbering down from the village road with each passing minute. Not exactly the most agile of predators, the zombies were even less so in the wet. They slipped, stumbled and fell over, some of them almost turtle-like in their inability to right themselves again. Clumsy or not, the sheer number was going to be a problem, considering the small team needed to be well clear of the grounds and the anti-Apparation wards before Harry would be able to take them back to the fleet.

"You recall those explosions you heard earlier?" Draco said. "Potter decided that the best way to attract our attention from outside the ward boundary was to shoot off a loud, gaudy spray of red and gold fireworks all over the Manor." He gave Harry a look. "How very male of you, Potter."

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's a Quidditch celebration spell I've used at tournaments. It bloody well worked, didn't it? How else would I have got you to come out and open the gates?"

"Of course it worked. I heard it. Granger heard it. Clearly about every undead specimen within a five kilometer radius heard and saw it, and are presently on their way."

Anatoli cleared his throat. He had two automatic assault rifles slung across his broad back. "More coming. We go now."

"What's the plan, boys?" Hermione asked.

Harry had another question. "Anatoli and I Apparated here just outside the village. I didn't think to check how much closer we could have gotten before the wards bounced us back. Do you know how far away from the gates we have to be?"

Draco shrugged. "Dunno. Never really had occasion to test it—stand back," he warned, as one of the creatures shoved an arm in between the bars of the gate. Its black-nailed fingers just grazed Harry's collar.

" _Guess_ ," Harry hissed.

"Could it be two meters, could be ten. Could be halfway between here and the village."

"Tremendously helpful, Malfoy. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Potter."

"Maybe if we wait, they'll lose interest and wander off?" Hermione hazarded.

Draco looked at Harry. "Is that what happened at Grimmauld Place?"

"No," Harry admitted.

"So then we have no choice but to shoot our way through," Hermione said. "And get far enough away so Harry can give the spell a go."

Harry didn't look convinced. "We only have Anatoli and one wand between us." He stared at Draco and Hermione. "Tell me you two have guns and know how to use them."

Hermione's answering smile was slightly scary.


	50. Return

Hermione's ears were still ringing with gunfire when Harry dropped them on the top deck of the home ship in a display of group-Apparation that would have made his DMLE trainers applaud. Apparation was not a risk-free form of travel and not advisable when moving between largely unfamiliar locations. It was additionally dangerous when cognitively impaired, over large bodies of water, between land masses and in the middle of crowds. Harry's decision to bring them to the top deck was a strategy straight from the textbook – the area was out in the open, spacious, uncluttered, and an easy enough mental target.

Only no one had been expecting the sodding hurricane.

As cold as it'd been in Wiltshire, it was nothing compared to the arctic wind currently lashing at the fleet, causing the large cruise-liner to bob up and down like a toy boat in a toddler's bath. It was impossible to see any other ships in the fleet. The rain, with a side-order of marble-sized hail, was coming down sideways so violently that it blistered Hermione's exposed face. She reached out a hand to grab the nearest person, which turned out to be Anatoli. He was, quite literally, a port in the storm.

"Come to me! I'll Apparate us inside!" Harry yelled, sounding too far away for comfort. Hermione felt Anatoli drag her towards Harry's voice.

There was a sound like a page ripping, only the page must have come from a book that was the size of a mountain. This was the best way to describe the noise of the thunder, muffled oddly by rain that was so heavy, Hermione could not see more than a few feet in front of her. Her companions seemed to be tall, dark blobs beyond her waterlogged eyes.

"Where's Draco?" she called out.

Her voice was sucked into the vortex of the wind. There was a bright flash of colour from above, a whirling dervish of red and white. One of the awnings from the top observation deck had been torn free from its moorings. It summersaulted through the air, making a loud whooping noise as it came at them. Hermione shoved Anatoli in the back, feeling like she'd run into a brick wall. Even so, he lurched forward just far enough and the enormous awning, twisted mental struts and all, went sailing past, smashing into the deck. Hermione was now on her hands and knees, attempting to regain her bearings when a horrendous feeling of vertigo assailed her.

An enormous wave smashed into the side of the home ship, causing the vessel to lurch to the right. She dug her nails into the wooden deck and managed to hang on. Someone else slid past her. Harry? Or was it Draco? Anatoli fared even less well, probably owing to his large size. There was no purchase to be found on the slippery ground.

At the next nauseating lurch of the vessel, he slid away from Hermione without making a sound. The ship rose to such an extent that the floor seemed momentarily vertical. Hermione was now falling, with the slick deck at her back. She hurtled towards the ship's metal railings, unable to do much more than brings her hands up to brace for the impending collision. At about a few feet before impact, she felt the air leave her body when Draco grabbed her around the waist. It was like being punched in the stomach. He was holding on to a thick, twisted strand of fairy lights, winding several tight loops around his forearm and wrist. Just below him, was Harry and Anatoli, both also holding on to strands of lighting along with the bags they had brought with them from the Manor.

"Do you have her?" she heard Harry roar. He was too far away to grab, which meant group Apparition was not an option. "Stay where you are! I'll come back for you!" And with that, he wisely disappeared first with Anatoli.

The ship dipped again.

"Here we go, hang on," Draco said into her ear. Hermione didn't need to be told twice, wrapping her legs around him. She had no idea what the fairy lights were attached to, but she hoped Amarov had spared no expense in that regard. If either of them went overboard, Harry could eventually find them with magic, but he may not be able to do it before they either drowned or froze to death in the icy water.

Banana lounges, tables and other bits and pieces sailed past them, slamming into the railing or pitching into the broiling ocean. It was pointless trying to climb back up the rope of lights until the ocean calmed somewhat, especially since they had no idea if the cables were going to hold.

She blinked rain from her eyes, unable to do much more than look at Draco's infuriatingly calm face. They were nose to nose, so close she could see the blue flecks in his grey irises. The rifle slung around his shoulders was jutting painfully into her hip. He had her quite effectively pinned to the deck, with his right hand around the lights and his left hand grasping the lowest rung of the railing. She could well imagine how much strength this required.

"Lovely day to be on the ocean," he said, or shouted rather, in order to be heard.

The situation was utterly ridiculous. They'd just mowed through a horde of zombies, using a combination of spells and gunfire, only to Apparate right into the worst storm Hermione had ever seen up close.

Could the world, just for one God-damned minute, _give them a fucking break_? Her hands were frozen claws, affixed to the front of Draco's sodden coat. She swore so enthusiastically that she felt him laugh.

Harry returned, appearing nearly on top of them. No time for pleasantries. The ship must have lurched again, for Hermione felt the familiar queasiness in her stomach. But there was no need to hold on any longer because Harry deposited the three of them on the floor of Belikov's laboratory. They lay there for a moment, wet and slightly dazed. Hermione sat up and sneezed three times in succession.

"Alright?" Harry said, with a small smile.

She was just about to respond when Anatoli doubled over and spewed the contents of his stomach into the lined trash receptacle that a very astute Belikov was holding out.

The Professor helped her to her feet. "Welcome back, Miss Granger."

* * *

"You've caught the start of the second laboratory shift," Belikov explained, as he dug through the storage cupboards and threw them some white, monogramed towels. "We're working in three shifts, with overlap at the end of the first. Dr Wallen and Dr McAlister have just finished the evening shift about half an hour ago. If you go to their rooms, you might still be able to catch them before they go to sleep. Professor Yoshida is currently on the _Rodderick_ , dispensing treatment."

"What's wrong with the passengers on the _Rodderick_?" Hermione inquired, thinking it had to be something fairly serious to require the attentions of the potions master.

"Head lice," Belikov said, smiling. "Stay clear of the ship for the moment, if you can manage it."

The deep back and forth rocking of the vessel was enough to turn the hardiest stomachs. Several of Belikov's lab team looked green, clutching the edge of their workbenches with white-knuckled fingers as they tried to get some work done. In the far corner, someone was vomiting into a plastic bag.

Hermione dropped her towel to the floor, attempting to mop up the copious amounts of water that had been transported into the laboratory with them. Harry peeled off his jacket and jumper, announcing that he was heading to his room to get showered and changed. Draco, meanwhile, was heedless of the fact he was dripping wet as he spoke in low and serious tones with two of the scientists. One of them was bringing up something to show him on a monitor. It looked like Re-Gen test results. Hermione was just about to walk over to join him, albeit with a great deal of slipping and sliding as the ship continued to do its best impression of a seesaw.

Just then, however, a woman pushed through the gawking crowd of scientists, stopping just in front of Anatoli. It took a moment for Hermione to recognise her—it was Marina, the second mate of the Cassiopeia and one of the instrumental players in the coup against Amarov. She opened her mouth to say something, but then seemed to decide against it. For a moment, it looked like she was about to turn on her heel and storm off, but then appeared to change her mind. Marina was a tall, formidable looking woman, but even so, the top of her head barely skimmed Anatoli's barrel-like chest. Undaunted by his size, she swung her hand, seemingly intent on hitting him in the face. Hermione watched in mild fascination. Marina's hand never met its mark. Anatoli caught her wrist in mid swing and held it there.

He said something in Russian. Hermione had no hope of deciphering it, but some type of sounds were universal. This had apology stamped all over it.

Belikov cleared his throat. "Hermione, I don't think you've been _formally_ introduced to Mrs Marina Berezin."

Hermione shot the elderly scientist a blank look.

"Anatoli's wife," he clarified

"Marina is your _wife_?" Draco exclaimed, from the opposite side of the lab.

Had Hermione not been on the brink of hypothermia, she might have grinned at how shrill and incredulous he sounded. He was rarely either of these things.

Anatoli looked aggrieved. "I tell you about her many times!"

"Yes, but you failed to mention she is the _same_ woman who armed Blaise and I when we were in the Pit! Nor did you mention she was the one responsible for helping us free the fleet!"

A shrug was all Draco got out of Anatoli.

Ever the diplomat, Belikov added, "I believe Anatoli was simply trying to protect his wife."

Everyone, including Marina, stared at Belikov. Marina was clearly not the type of woman that required much looking after.

Marina was not done being angry with her husband. She unleased on him, alternating between yelling and shoving at his chest, which, as Hermione had recently experienced, was much like pushing at an oak tree. The scolding was mostly in Russian, but Hermione managed to grasp the gist of it. Anatoli had failed to tell his wife that he'd left the hard-earned safety of the fleet to venture out into zombie infested Wiltshire.

This, as always, was what came of caring about people. Hermione's attention shifted from the arguing couple, to Draco, who had apparently decided the domestic squabble was no longer worthy of his attention. He was frowning down at a stack of printed results, occasionally glancing up at the scientist who was explaining the output. Less than fifteen minutes back in the lab and he had already put on his scientist hat. He did not enjoy being idle.

She was beginning to understand Draco's reluctance to attach himself to anything or anyone. How ironic that the scion of one of the magical world's last great Pureblood houses so eschewed attachment. His early years had been spent amidst great material wealth and an undeniable fondness for prestige, power and influence. And then the war had descended on all of them, obliterating childhoods, innocence and certain assumptions about how the world _ought_ to be.

Attachment was weakness, as the Berezins were demonstrating for them right now. The more you grew attached to something also meant a greater likelihood of eventually coming to rely on it in some fashion, to depend on it. The more you cared, the more you had to lose. Perhaps Draco was as much a product of Voldemort as Harry was. The difference between the two men was that Harry, who had come from nothing, drew strength from the relationships in his life, despite the obvious risks. For Draco, who had been born with everything, the opposite was true.

Perhaps Draco sensed that he was the subject of Hermione's unexpected musings. He looked up at her, his light eyes searching. She felt pinned in place, like a frog being dissected.

"Get yourself dry before you freeze," Belikov fussed. "And then a bowl of hot soup, yes?"

Too late, Hermione thought. She was sure she was already frozen to the spot.

"Soup would be heavenly," she admitted, aware that the Professor was looking at her with some concern. Hard to blame him, really. She'd been shell-shocked the last time she'd seen him. "Don't worry about me, I know my way around the galley. However, I do have a few things to unload first, clothing included. Can you direct me to where I'll be staying?"

Belikov looked confused. "With Draco, I assumed? Now that our Magical residents are integrated into the fleet, space is at a premium. However, we have not reassigned Draco's quarters to anyone else."

There wasn't enough effective circulation in her face to blush. It really wasn't surprising Belikov assumed she and Draco were together. After all, for a short while, she had assumed the same thing.

"Of course," she said, with a wan smile.

"Henry treats the cabin as home, you see?" Belikov explained. "We've tried not to cause too much unnecessary upheaval since he lost his father."

 _Henry. Dear God_. How could she have forgotten about the little boy Blaise had, for some unfathomable reason, given over to Draco and her to look after. She had so recently been a complete mess and Draco wasn't exactly the nurturing type. What the hell were they going to do?

"Henry…how is he? _Where_ is he?"

Belikov glanced down at his wristwatch. "He should be at school now."

Hermione was surprised. "I had no idea the fleet had a school. Is that the best place for him to be right now?"

"There are two non-Magical schools at the moment, to be precise. One for the little ones and we're still trying to source instructors for the high school. There are three hundred and eighteen children under the age of sixteen in the fleet, Miss Granger. A third of them are Magical. Most have not set foot in a classroom for almost two years. As for young Henry, what the boy needs now is some consistency. He insisted on attending today and we didn't see fit to stop him."

"I'd like to see him."

"The children study on the 'Peia. I'm sure Marina can take you back with her just in time for lunch." Belikov glanced warily at Anatoli's still-glowering wife. "If you ask nicely."

Draco appeared beside Belikov. He'd by now stripped off his sodden coat and scarf. The spiked tips of his hair were still dripping water.

"You're going to catch your death of cold," Belikov informed him.

"There's worse things to catch at the moment."

Belikov sighed. "You've seen the data, then."

Hermione glanced between the two men. "What's wrong? Is it Re-Gen? Does it need to be tweaked again? I can help."

"Re-Gen's not the problem," said Draco, pushing back his wet hair. "It's doing what it's supposed to do. Based on what I'm seeing here," he held up the notes, "with the help of McAlister, Wallen and Yoshida. D.R.A.C.O. has been successfully replicated."

"Oh my God," Hermione whispered. She grasped Belikov's arm. "You've done it!"

"Not quite, I'm afraid."

"I don't understand. What's the problem?"

It was Draco who answered. "We have no way to properly test it. Without successful test results, we have a 'maybe' cure. We need something definitive."

"Why can't we test it?" Hermione took the notes from Draco's hands.

He inclined his head. "See for yourself."

Hermione skim-read through two pages before looking up at the men. "Seeing as I'm not an expert in virology, all I can gather here is that the virus has mutated to such an extent that using original samples collected for Project Christmas are no longer appropriate? But I thought D.R.A.C.O. was broad spectrum? Isn't it meant to work on almost anything?"

"Apparently not on the current strain of virus that we've tested it on. The serum is meant to induce apoptosis in virus-infected cells," said Draco.

"Cell death."

Draco nodded. He looked at Belikov. "But the success rate is so far…what? Sixty percent?"

"Less, about fifty," said Belikov, tiredly. "But I don't think it's to do with the efficacy of the serum. I think it's more to do with the fact we don't have a suitable variation of samples on which to robustly test the cure."

"What are you testing it on?" Hermione asked, frowning. "If not the samples Honoria took from Grimmauld Place, I wasn't under the impression that you had any Undead left in the fleet to harvest?"

At this, Draco gave Belikov a pointed look. "I've only just learned the answer to that question. Are you going to tell her or shall I?"

"Tell me what?" Hermione demanded.

Belikov walked ahead. "Better that I just show you. Come with me, please."


End file.
